by Lauren Rowe
Even if I originally married My Husband the Porno King as a means of fulfilling my sacred destiny, I reckon I’ve somehow managed to find a platinum-lined happily ever after with him despite myself. The very thought of how happy my life’s unexpectedly turned out makes me wanna slap my own forehead and shout, “Ain’t that the berries!” almost every single day.
I’ve been so happy with my sweet and gentle husband these past four months, in fact, I’m a whole new person. Nowadays, all I ever do is sing a happy tune and giggle and pinch myself all day long at my good fortune. Just the other day, Kurtis and I were in bed together after an especially toe-curling session in the sack, and Kurtis said, “Hey, honey, why’d you decide to get such small boobs?” He asked me the question like it was a “by the way” kind of query, like he was asking me something akin to, “Have you ever thought of trying blue eye shadow for a change?”—as if saying such a horrible thing about my beautiful boobies wasn’t rightful justification for a wife to stab her husband in his chest and cram the cavity full of cornbread stuffing.
“I’ll pay for bigger ones if you want to get ’em, baby,” Kurtis added, probably thinking I was gonna squeal with delight.
“Well, bless your heart,” I replied, smiling sweetly. “But I think my boobies are the perfect size for an actress.” (I didn’t have to add, “as opposed to a stripper” on account of that second half being implied.)
The thing that amazed me about the whole conversation was that, as much as my blood should have boiled when Kurtis made that unforgivable comment about my beautiful boobs, I didn’t even want to jerk him bald for it. It was like I wasn’t even me.
And that’s when I knew that living in this fancy mansion and getting spicy-hot lovin’ every single day from a husband who adores me, and hearing about how gorgeous I am (even without lipstick on), and how my husband’s gonna make sure I’m seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world has transformed me into the pure and good woman Kurtis thinks I am. It’s true I’ve done a few bad things in the past (by necessity), but now, thanks to my newfound happiness with my husband, I’ve finally been able to put the past firmly behind me, cleanse my soul, and start anew.
The only teensy-weensy thing that’s given me just the slightest bit of a peach-pit in my stomach these past four months is one tiny thing (and, really, it’s hardly a thing at all, hardly even worth mentioning). But lately, maybe for the past month or so, it seems like Kurtis’ passion for me has started to morph and twist into something I don’t completely understand. When he’s on top of me and giving it to me really good, really making me scream his name and beg him for mercy, he’s lately taken to growling low and gravelly into my ear, “You’re mine.” And the strange part is that he says it over and over again, with each thrust of his body, and with such fierce intensity, it kinda makes my hair stand on end and my stomach flip upside-down.
I mean, I knew Kurtis would be passionate about me once I finally gave myself to him completely—but his zeal about me is beginning to feel like something different than passion. I just don’t know what to call it, though. I expected Kurtis to become wrapped around my little finger when I finally became his virgin bride—and he most certainly did. What I didn’t expect, though, is how, lately, having Kurtis wrapped around my little finger has started to feel an awful lot like having Kurtis’ fingers wrapped around my slender neck.
Chapter 24
18 Years 10 Months Old
430 Days Before Killing Kurtis
“I’ve got a big surprise for you, baby,” Kurtis says, bursting through the front door and bounding into the living room.
I look up from my book. Kurtis is always surprising me with fancy presents.
Kurtis bounds over to me on the couch and scoops me up like a rag doll. “I enrolled you in acting classes today, baby.” He’s smiling from ear to ear as if he thinks this news is gonna make me jump for joy.
I’m instantly prickly as a porcupine. My husband wants to send me to school?
“You’re officially an acting student, baby,” Kurtis continues. “Now all you need’s a job as a waitress, and you’ll be a true Angeleno.” He laughs.
“You don’t think I’m a good enough actress already?”
He scoffs. “Of course, I do. But let’s be honest; you don’t have any experience, honey—you know, in front of the camera, saying lines from a script. You’re gonna need some experience before we can convince investors you can carry an entire movie all by yourself.”
“Whom do we need to convince? I thought you believed in me, Kurtis.”
“Of course, I believe in you. But you’re green, honey. And investors aren’t gonna gamble big money on an unknown actress with zero experience.”
“But why do we need investors, anyway? I still don’t understand why you can’t just pay for the movie yourself.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about the business side of things, Buttercup,” Kurtis says, as if I’ve got the IQ of a pollywog. “You just worry about being the star.”
Well, damn, it’s awfully hard to worry about being the star of a movie when there’s no movie to star in. I’m suddenly angrier than a hornet. I push Kurtis away and leap up from the couch. “I’m a whisker away from having a hissy-fit with a tail on it, Kurtis Jackman.”
Kurtis laughs, totally unfazed by my flash of anger. “The camera loves you, baby, obviously, and there’s no doubt you’re gonna light the screen on fire, but you still need acting classes to get comfortable saying scripted lines in front of a camera. That’s just the way it is.”
“Are acting classes like school? Where they try to make everyone standardized?” I ask. “Because I don’t want some small-minded acting teacher trying to make me think like everybody else.”
“No, no, no, it’s just the opposite.” Kurtis chuckles. “You don’t know about acting classes?”
I shake my head, defiant. “Do they give out multiple-choice tests?”
Kurtis laughs and pulls me onto the couch again. “Come here, baby,” Kurtis commands, guiding me onto his lap. I feel like a little girl visiting Santa. He smooths my hair away from my face and grins at me. “Even when Marilyn Monroe was already a big star, do you know what she did?”
I shake my head.
“She enrolled in acting classes,” Kurtis explains. “Do you know why?”
I shake my head again.
“Because she wanted to learn how to be better. All great actors take acting classes, baby, all of ’em.”
Well, this is news to me. “Are you sure, Kurtis?”
“Of course.”
“Even Marilyn?”
“Especially Marilyn. It was a whole big thing—in all the papers and everything.”
Relief and elation floods into me. Maybe Kurtis actually knows what he’s talking about here, after all. I scrunch my mouth up, deep in thought.
Kurtis laughs and beep-beeps my nose. “Baby, the whole time Marilyn made that movie with Laurence Olivier, she had an acting coach.”
I don’t know what movie he’s talking about. I haven’t actually seen a whole lot of movies—I’ve just read a whole bunch of books about movie stars. But I believe him. “Well,” I say, suddenly resolved, “I reckon I need an acting coach, then, honey—I need an acting coach right quick.”
Kurtis chuckles.
All of a sudden, electricity is coursing through my veins. “Kurtis Jackman, you’ve got to get me my very own acting coach. Pronto.” I bounce up and down on his lap to emphasize my point.
“Hang on, honey. Calm down,” Kurtis coos. “Go to some beginning acting classes, see what you think, and we’ll figure things out from there.”
I throw my arms around Kurtis’ neck. If Marilyn went to acting lessons, then I’ll do it, too. Hell, maybe I’ll even learn a thing or two—you never know. If it turns out acting classes are full of small-minded, dumbass teachers telling me what I can and can’t do—people who wanna turn me into a standardized drone who can’t think her way out of a p
aper bag—well, then, I’ll just smile like sunshine on a cloudy day and ignore them all.
“Now, baby, I want you to go to your classes every single day like a good girl and learn as much as possible, okay? This is gonna keep you busy and out of trouble all those long hours while I’m at work.”
Well, hang on a minute. What kind of trouble does he think I’ll get myself into? I’m about to ask that very question when Kurtis says, “I like knowing my wife’s being a good preacher’s daughter when I’m not around.” I suddenly feel Kurtis’ hardness poking up from his lap, right against my undies. He places his hands firmly on either side of my head, right at my temples and looks directly into my eyes. “A pretty girl with too much time on her hands can get too easily distracted.” His eyes flash with a sudden hardness I don’t understand.
I force a smile. Why am I feeling like a mouse in a trap right now? “You always do so much for me,” I squeak out. “Thank you.”
Kurtis presses his hands even harder against my temples for a strange, unsettling moment, causing my breathing to go shallow. Just as I’m about to panic, though, he releases my head and exhales. “You’re a good girl,” he mutters, his erection hard as a rock underneath me. “Let’s make sure you stay that way.” In a sudden movement, Kurtis throws me onto my back on the couch, reaches under my skirt, and yanks down my panties. “You’re mine,” he growls, entering me roughly. “And I’m gonna make you a. Huge. Fucking. Star.”
Chapter 25
18 Years 11 Months Old
415 Days Before Killing Kurtis
I wake up with a start.
I’ve been dreaming of Daddy. In my dream, he told me exactly where to find him. And, gosh dang it, where he said to look is so obvious, I feel like a fool for not thinking of it sooner.
The whole time I’ve been in Hollywood, I’ve tried and tried to find Daddy as best I could on my own. When I first got here, I stupidly thought I’d just look him up in the phonebook and scoot on down to his fancy mansion and throw my arms around him and cry. When that didn’t work out, my next idea was hiring a detective, but I couldn’t figure out how to pay for one without Kurtis finding out—and letting Kurtis find out about my not-dead, not-Preacher of a daddy isn’t an option.
After those two ideas for finding Daddy didn’t work out, all I could think to do was scrutinize the passing faces on the sidewalk, wander down random streets in the Hollywood hills with the biggest mansions on them, and pop into every juke joint and diner I passed within two miles of Hollywood, asking after him. But no matter how many places I’ve popped into, I keep hearing the same thing: “Nope. Never heard of him.”
It’s been discouraging, to say the least, but I’ve never given up hope. I’ve always believed serendipity would lead me to my daddy, sooner or later. But, now, thanks to Daddy visiting me in my dream, I don’t need serendipity—all I need is the yellow pages.
I pad downstairs to the kitchen where we keep the phonebooks.
I’m in luck. There’s only one listing in the entire city where Daddy could possibly be, and it’s just a ten-minute cab ride away. The thought that Daddy’s been right under my nose this whole time, just ten minutes away, makes me groan in frustration. I want to slap myself silly for not figuring this out sooner.
A short ninety minutes later, I’m gussied up fit-to-kill and standing in front of a sign that reads, “Hollywood Putt-Putt-’n’-Stuff Mini Golf.” This has got to be the place. I slam the cab door and take a deep breath. I wonder if Daddy will even recognize me. He’s gonna be fit-to-be-tied when he sees what’s become of his twelve-year-old little girl—his namesake and greatest invention.
“Pardon me, honey,” I call to a young man trimming the hedges over by the pirate ship at hole nine. The guy continues his work, apparently not realizing I’m speaking to him. I walk right up close to the man, close enough for him to smell my pretty perfume, and tap him on his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
He straightens up and turns around, and it’s immediately clear he likes what he sees. “Yes, miss?”
“Hello there, sir,” I purr to the man, smiling. “I’m wondering if you can help me, please?” I stick out my boobs and jut my hip alluringly when I say this last part. Might as well give this young man something to fantasize about on cold, lonely nights.
He smiles broadly at me. “Sure.”
That boy could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence with those teeth, but still, he’s kind of cute. “Do you know where I can find Charlie Wilber, please?”
The man scratches his head. “Um. I’m not sure. But maybe go inside and ask Bob. He’s the owner. He knows everybody.”
I smile sweetly and wink. “Well, thank you so much, honey.”
Inside, an old, craggy man is standing behind a counter, handing out golf clubs to a family. I wait behind the family, reminding myself to breathe. When the family finally leaves the counter, I step right up.
“How many golfers?” the old man asks.
My stomach drops into my feet. This is it. This man’s gonna lead me to my daddy, after all this time and so many tears. The tornado of emotions swirling inside me is almost too much to bear. “I’m actually looking for someone?”
He raises his eyebrows, inviting more information.
My heart is thumping in my ears. When I finally see Daddy, I’m going to hug and kiss him and lay my cheek on his shoulder and look up into his movie-star-handsome face and pepper his entire face with kisses. After that, I’ll twirl and twirl around so he can see me from every angle, showing him just how much I’ve grown up and filled out. He’ll whistle and bellow, “Ooooweeeee! You’re the most beautiful woman that ever did live, Buttercup.” And then he’ll ask if I’ve settled for anything less than the very best in this life, and I’ll be so proud to tell him, “No, Daddy, I most certainly have not. I’m living in a fancy mansion with a fountain with naked ladies and cherubs and even a little cupid with wings, just like you always dreamed for me! I’m Charlie Wilber’s Daughter, Daddy! I’m somebody!”
But then... Why, I suddenly wonder... Why didn’t Daddy write to me again after that very first letter? Why didn’t he come get me? Why didn’t he invite me to live in his fancy mansion with him?
“Miss?”
I take a deep breath. Daddy will explain everything. There’s no point in wondering about all of it when, in just a few short minutes, Daddy himself will be standing in front of me, telling me every last thing I’ve ever wanted to know about the past six and a half years. “Yes, sir, thank you. I’m looking for Charlie Wilber.” I say Daddy’s name slowly and enunciate it perfectly. I don’t want there to be any confusion about the name I’m saying. “He’s my daddy.”
The man looks surprised. “You’re Charlie Wilber’s daughter?”
Lord have mercy. I’ve been running all over hell’s half acre looking for Daddy all this time, and this man just recognized his name! I can barely breathe. All I can manage is a bug-eyed nod.
The man shakes his head. “Charlie’s not here.”
Tears instantly well up in my eyes. This can’t be happening.
“He used to be, though, but that was years ago.”
My heart is racing even faster at that news. Daddy was here. I look down at the carpet beneath my shoes and imagine Daddy’s shoes standing on this very spot.
“He used to come around practically every day, telling his stories, showing off his golf course designs, helping people get their balls unstuck from the chute, telling everyone exactly how to sink hole fourteen... “ The man’s face flashes annoyance. “Yeah, everyone knew Charlie,” the man continues. “He’s not the kind of guy you’d easily forget.” He pauses.
I know he’s got more to say, but for some reason he’s not saying it. I’m trying to be patient, I really am, but I’m bursting.
I wait as long as I can stand it before shrieking at him like a hyena. “Well, for cryin’ out loud, sir, where’s my daddy now?” This man better stop going around his elbow to get to his thumb, or I’m gon
na leap across this counter and knock his teeth down his throat ’til he spits ’em back out single file.
The man presses his lips together. “Well, I’m not sure if he’s still over there anymore...” He bites his lip.
I look him in the eyes, my nostrils flaring. “Where?”
He continues, “Like I say, I’m not sure if he’s still over there, but I’ll tell you what I heard happened.”
I nod, my heart in my throat.
When the man speaks again, it’s to tell me exactly where to find Daddy. And when he does, I have to grip the counter with white knuckles so I don’t crumple onto my knees and throw myself on the floor.
Chapter 26
Lancaster, California
18 Years 11 Months Old
412 Days Before Killing Kurtis
After my horrible bus ride out to Hollywood almost a year ago, I swore I’d never ride a bus again, but, of course, I should’ve known a girl can never say never. A year ago, I never thought I’d be married to a porno-king, either, so go figure. If riding another bus means getting to see my daddy, then I’ll ride another bus. I’d ride a bus straight to Hades to see my daddy—I’d ride a hundred buses into the pits of hell and crawl on my hands and knees across hot coals over ten miles of bad road.
As the bus pulls away, it’s hotter than bacon grease in a skillet and I’m standing in the middle of nowhere in front of a stark gray building surrounded by barbed-wire fences. I’ve never seen an actual prison before, and the sight of it curls my toes, especially when I think about Daddy being locked up inside there. A sign to my right says, “Visitor’s Entrance,” and I reckon that’s the place I’ve got to go.
The guard at the visitor’s entrance does an extremely thorough job of frisking me and frisking me again. But I don’t mind. I can’t imagine he’s ever had the pleasure of touching anyone as pretty as me in his whole sad-sack life, and I’m glad to give him a happy memory.
