by Billie Dale
Twenty
Joey
“Your plan goes balls up when Preslee’s stalker burns the whole damn thing to the ground.” A growl vibrates my chest on her name.
Is it socially acceptable to punch your friend in the dick?
And what the hell is this burning in my gut? Pretend fiancé, fake nuptials, dress shopping, and the whole town giving me the eye because the girl I let slip through my fingers is marrying the guy who super glued my pieces back together with friendship; no thank you.
I woke up with her pretzeled around me, and my hand buried in her pussy. After all these years, I still reach for her in the middle of the night. Last night I found her. Her brother’s rude wake-up call created havoc. My head clouded with confusion for about sixty seconds before I remembered I hate her and why.
The mother-daughter battle royale broke out when Vivianne arrived. Sheltered in the kitchen, I hoped we could analyze Preslee’s list using Sam’s keen eye and photographic memory. We ended up sidetracked with the arrival of our kids and Creeden.
“Thanks for whipping your dickishness out to fire hose all over our happy, there, Killjoy.” Pure ire burns through me from Preslee’s glare.
“Stalker?” Creeden asks, drawing me another thanks-a-bunch-fucker narrow eye from her.
I tell her to grab her list while I break down the situation to Creeden. If he’s agreeing to this façade, he deserves to know his head might be next in the guillotine.
When she returns, her shoulders sit up next to her ears. She cradles the notebook tight to her chest. Hesitant guilt and shame keeps her spine straight.
Ruddy heat sweeps up her neck flushing her face pink, while her friend’s spaz out over some of the names listed. Sammy tongue wags over a few of the hot male actors, drawing jeers from Mazric. Hendrix comments on the ones he’s worked with too and what he knows.
They laugh and joke, but my stare stays on Preslee’s glistening eyes.
Under normal circumstances her stellar work history would make great girl talk fodder, but nothing about this is normal.
“Oh my God, you worked with Waylan Shepherd? Swoon. Is he as hot and muscled in person?” Sammy coos. When a response doesn’t come, she glances up seeing the ocean of her friend’s eyes swimming as one tear breaks the levee.
“Oh, Pres. Oh… I,” Sam stammers, laying a hand over her friends shaking fist.
Hendrix moves to comfort his sister. My arms ache to hold her, but my feet stay rooted.
She dodges her brother, jumping from her seat. “I forgot the sketch,” she murmurs. Her eyes trained on the floor, she bolts from the room.
My hands clench at my sides, fighting the need to follow her and apologize. I meant to drive home how this crazy idea of theirs wouldn’t work by emphasizing the trouble she brought. Instead, I allowed this festering burn in my chest to shame her. When they were going on about the plans, her face lit with the realest smile I’d seen since she arrived. Oh, she’s grinned and pretended but I recognize the fake Preslee mask of don’t-worry-about-me.
What I think is jealousy sent my head up my ass and my foot down my throat. She’s not mine. I don’t want her to be. The whole thing is a sham with the purest of purpose, yet the way Creeden glommed onto the idea and how no one jumped to suggest I be the fake husband-to-be shoved a knife in my nuts.
“Sam flash through that eidetic mind of yours. Do any of those names stick out?” I bark as Preslee shuffles back in. “And do these guys look familiar?” I nod to the drawing and the images on her phone.
“No none jumps out at me,” she answers.
“The detective in California said these guys are computer gurus, yeah?” Creeden asks. I nod. “Care if I scan the names to see what I can find?”
Hendrix crosses his arms over his chest, standing sentinel in front of his sister. “You big on the dark web? Hanging with the shady side of the internet?”
“No, but I might know some people who are. Any news is helpful. Right?”
Preslee agrees, pointing out what her highlighting means, so he doesn’t waste time on uselessness.
He snaps a picture with his phone. “Look this guy doesn’t scare me, so if you want to move forward with the wedding planning text me. If I find out any information, Joey, I’ll send it your way. I gotta get back to help with the lunch rush. Catch y’all later.” We all tell him goodbye and watch him leave the room.
Mazzy Jae skips in with my son hot on her heels. “Mom, can I take Cash to Asia’s shop? We want manicures. Oh, what’s with all the highlighted names and isn’t this the guy in the diner a few weeks ago?”
My eyes bug out, my mind whirls. The manly dad in me keeps sticking on Sammy’s daughter wanting to take my son for a manicure, while the cop side of my brain waves a ‘wait a damn minute’ sign. Don’t read me wrong here, I’m all for my son exploring his sensitive side, and hey, if having his hands rubbed down and nails painted allows him songs of happy, happy, joy, joy then I’m supportive guy. But it needs to take a back seat right now.
I kneel, meeting Mazilynn Vortex’s wise beyond her years stare. Her vibrant green eyes match her dad’s but the rest of her is all Sammy Lee. Along with her mother’s youthful sweetness, she also possesses a brain, which never stops, and you can see the gears churning within the tight confines of her skull by how she twists lips and scrunches her brow.
When Samantha Gentry pushed her kindergarten teacher to the brink, the school insisted she skip a few grades. Actually, they suggested homeschooling, but due to financial struggles it wouldn’t come in until later. She joined our third grade class at seven. All knees and elbows with an uncontrolled halo of spirals hanging down her back. She was and is literal to a fault. First to point out shortcomings and wrongs, fellow classmates drew a target on her back with quickness. Kids are heartless lost creatures who draw pleasure in others’ discomfort to hide their own inadequacies and self-loathing. To please the mass, we cut and cuss at the different. Jackson Mills and Asia DeMarco labeled her Spammy, binding her within the land of the weird and friendless. Later, when Sam’s genius ripped apart the bell curve, they hated her more.
While I never became an active participant in her ridicule, I didn’t stop it either. To keep in the good graces of the popular clique, I too brandished her nickname and watched while she curled into loneliness. Then Mazric Vortex arrived. Everyone clamored for his attention, hoping he’d pick their group. He spent the summer with Samantha, who lived next door to his granddad’s farm. They met without peer pressure. Through basketball and perseverance Sam pulled him out of his angry funk, becoming his best friend.
Nothing tests friendship more than a new kid finding his rank in the popularity hierarchy.
Loyal. Mazric is the word by definition. While Sammy Lee resigned to her fate, Mazric rebuked the system with the first snide stab from Jackson Mills. He came to her defense, standing mighty oak tall despite his shortness. He chose her over and over. Preslee made them a trio the same day and they were inseparable. I envied them but stuck close to Jackson. Even though I believed he is and was a dick, I was afraid to rock the boat.
Need a car in Seven Mile Forge? Jackson Mills GMC is where you go. He’s gung-ho to sell the next sucker an overpriced, high interest piece of shit, and he’ll do it with a Cheshire smile and wink. Bring lube because when the amount you spent sinks in, your ass will burn where he screwed you.
But enough of those tasty facts, let’s return to the brainteaser at hand… Mazzy’s wonderful memory.
“MJ, what was this guy doing in the diner?” I ask.
She shuffles her feet, blinking her big green eyes. “He got a coffee to go. But I remember him because he stood outside in the snow watching Dot’s for ten minutes. It was freezing and he seemed angry.”
I question her on who took his order and anyone he spoke to. She thinks Creeden filled his coffee request, but is certain he spoke to no one else. Curious how my friend didn’t recognize him from the picture, but then again if he only ordered a bev
erage during a rush, I can understand the forgetting. Being the only restaurant in town, the diner is madness during peak times and faces blur.
She returns to the notebook of names. “I can help with these,” she says flipping the pages.
“I appreciate it, MJ, but this is a cop thing,” I respond.
“But Dad bought me this killer rig. Three screens and several terabytes of memory. I’ll have it up and running in a week or so and this thing could hack the CIA if I wanted.”
“Mazilynn Jae,” Sammy chides before rounding on her husband. “You bought her a computer that powerful?”
He shrugs. “I ask what she needed to help with her experiments and videos. She showed me. I paid. How was I to know she could use it for cybercrime?”
“I didn’t say I would break through the governments firewalls, only I could. But this is somewhat harmless searching.”
A resounding ‘no’ stereos from all the adults. Her lips curl to the side and the spark in her eyes says she’s already catalogued the names with her photographic memory. Mental note to check back with the child wonder in a few weeks because I know how her sneaky mind works.
Until we find more information, we’re stuck in a holding pattern waiting for something to surface.
Twenty-One
Preslee
A little over a month ago I drove into town with my fake auburn head hunkered, shame riding my heels, and fear ringing my shoulders like a permanent backpack. After the dreaded ‘this is my life’s failure’ revelation, Mazric delivered on providing bodyguards. Two romance cover worthy muscular men hover in ghost fashion at the edges of my vision during every waking minute. Handsome and beefy, they stand out in our small town. Women of all ages take notice when they pass. Since the night someone trashed the hall, my stalker dropped into obscurity. No more strange men sending creepy messages, no dead flowers, or missing underwear. For the first time in years, I’m not afraid to leave my house.
Joey warns my constant psycho is lulling me into a false sense of security, hoping I’ll let down my guard and present an opportunity for him to pounce. He hates my guards, claiming they draw too much attention and fanfare. Despite his vehement objection, Creeden and I started operation Get Sammy and Mazric Hitched.
Culture shock attacked me hard and fast when I moved to LA. I considered myself worldly after spending most of my childhood in third-world countries. From tiny villages to a tiny town when the bustle of the City of Angels swallowed me, I freaked. I graduated from everyone knowing when I got my period because I bought tampons at the local market to realizing if I were murdered it could be weeks before someone discovered my body. The traffic, smells, and roaring life of a town submerged in glitz and slime didn’t care how I jilted a boy back home or if a man wanted to wear my ass as a hat.
All my bolster and aspirations was obliterated and if I had a dick, it was knocked in the dirt by my mundane plainness. I was a chaser. In the land of plastic and beauty I gawped in swank shops, hoping for a glimpse of stardom. A naïve do-gooder who traded lofty planet saving for a paycheck and name-dropping. The typical Hollywood bottom-feeder.
Competition chewed me up and spit me out until I grew teeth of my own and learned the art of backstabbing. A few carefully dropped criticisms of my makeup artist brethren attached to so and so said, and I stepped up one rung at a time.
Here in Seven Mile, I’m reminded with a quickness how gossip lives and breathes. Oh yes, the world feeds on TMZ gobbling up bites of stars lives, but in SMF if you don’t pull the right punches you get knocked the fuck out.
When Creeden and I revealed our fake chumminess, daring to hold hands in public… gasp… the town split right down the middle. I mean, I am the girl/woman/ harlot who broke the Chief's heart all those millennia ago. The blue hairs tsked at my gall to sink my claws in the sweetness of Creeden Jones. Surely, I was only after his money or trying to pilfer his latest programming code.
It took some major snuggling and nose rubbing to alter their conviction of my whore-on-a-mission status. Plus, they all watched Joey for signs of distress. If I hurt him again; the pitchforks and kindling gathering would be town wide, complete with public witch burning.
Despite Creeden’s extensive coding skills, he couldn’t find anyone on my list who fits the stalker. He made charts and lists on each potential suspect, even designed a program to help. After entering information gleaned from some serious hacking into people’s lives, the application spits out a basic yes or no and why.
Detective Highland calls Creeden’s program faulty because the proof is in the missing panties. Someone out there wants me for nefarious purposes, and he’s certain it’s someone close to my life. He is also in Camp Joey on the sudden disappearance of all things stalkerish.
For once I’m breathing easier and enjoying time with my family and friends.
Nona and Vivianne shelved their muskets, agreeing the elegant changes in the living room work better for an NBA star’s wedding. The gloves come off after the ceremony. Under the watchful eye of my guards, workers finished the music studio in the basement, which made my brother a happy boy.
Hendrix and I stayed close, despite the miles between us, but I missed sharing a bowl of popcorn while arguing over the factuality of Ghost Hunters. Sammy joins us when she can, adding Mazzy’s insight and logic to the unexplained. That kid is spectacular and I hate how I missed most of her life.
The bad bestie award goes to me. I’ll wear my SA label—Shitty Aunt—sewed to my chest with shame.
A resounding ‘damn’ is heard worldwide when Sam and Mazric announced the postponement of their wedding. They claimed scheduling conflict, blaming the pressure of Mazric’s games and the production of a new facial line by Sam’s company.
Home Vittles is Samantha Gentry’s brainchild. She used her genius to feed the world in an organic, no chemicals way. The eco-crazy Californians devour her foods and it eased her path as a single mom.
During my self-imprisonment, I scooped up as many Home Vittles herbs as I could find, going as far as asking her to ship me what I couldn’t access. With nothing more than a double boiler and a mortar and pestle, I created an organic blend of face creams. I subjected myself to many breakouts, allergic reactions, and one visit to the ER using myself as a test dummy. The result is pure witchcraft. An anti-aging, acne curing, wrinkle-releasing moisturizer, which tightens skin better than Botox and is one-hundred-percent all natural with a fruity scent. I’ve used it at work and despite not being FDA approved, sold several to big name stars.
It offers the illusion of youth without the caked-up, wet, multilayered spackle so many women lean toward. This is the shiznit you can apply in the morning with some mascara and lipstick then BAM look out world, here I come. Who doesn’t want to be photo ready in five minutes?
During a girls’ night with Sam and Mazzy, I used it on my friend and she fell in love. I’d meant to approach her about production eventually but got sidetracked with all the wedding planning. She began recruiting scientists for the new cosmetics lab. Mazzy tried the cream but found it made her young, still elastic skin too oily, so with my downtime I am trying to create a blend for teens and early twentysomethings. I’m not ancient by any stretch, at not yet thirty, but anyone who trolls the videos for makeup tips sees it’s all about layer upon layer until we’re spackled up with more frosting than a cake. I hate the thick heaviness all the beauty bloggers encourage. Plus, those layers only work if you’re behind a lens. Up close and personal or dipped in water is Scary Mary territory.
I’m in the ‘makeup should enhance natural beauty’ camp and not the ‘create a different face’ one. I mean, who hasn’t seen some of these old snaggle-toothed Asia girls becoming something out of Anime porn? Talk about false advertising.
While all of this is so fascinating, I’ve possibly bored you to death. Let’s dive back into the juicy. Thanks to my connections, we avoided the wedding dress shopping fiasco of fitting Sam’s tiny body in my curvy dimensions. Dotty helped
with the measurements, Sam found her dream dress in a swanky boutique a block off Rodeo Drive, owned by the first person I ever made up for a movie, Jasmina Donavon.
Jasmina was at the end of her career when she flopped in my chair. She’d already rode the tide of starring actress and love interest, but with her rising age she found herself with few lines and casting as a grandmother. With shaking hands and a tiny jar of my first round of face cream, I made her one hot granny. The producer ahh-ed over her youthful glow, writers clamored for the ‘she’s your sister’ angle and when the B-grade film premiered, she became a household name again. All the big cosmetic gurus wanted her touting their products. Youth sells and if you can make people think your product made a sixty-year-old woman look thirty-five without a scalpel, woohoo for you.
Jasmina declined, claiming she’d rather retire than lie. She bought a flailing dress shop and turned into a moneymaking dream. She caters to all the big names as the be-all end-all for the bride-to-be. We stayed in contact over the years, mainly because she can’t live without my lotion. When I showed Sam her website, she fell in love with the designs of simple elegance.
Mazric jumped all over the simplicity idea, vetoing groomsmen in formalwear. We are all county bumpkins after all so while Sammy nixed flannel and bolo ties, she agreed to black dress shirts and pressed slacks. A true black-and-white affair.
Now Creeden and I must be convincing.
I make daily trips to the diner. The minute I arrive, he greets me with a kiss on the forehead. We share many lunches and desserts, but no one is buying what we are trying to sell. Judgmental stares and shaking heads with scathing comments whisper behind cupped hands.
Did I mention I hate small-town bullshit?
