Countdown to Killing Kurtis

by Lauren Rowe

  It’s funny how everything happens for a reason. As it turned out, jail wound up doing Wesley some good. I reckon it was almost like a happy vacation for Wesley after living so many years in group-home hell. He wound up having some good meals and making friends, like he said. And even better than that, he became a real man with real muscles while he was there. Wooh-wee, did he ever!

  And even more to the point of how things happen exactly as they’re supposed to, thanks to Wesley being in jail for so long, there’s only about five short weeks ’til Killing Kurtis Day. He couldn’t have come back to me at a better time. All I’ve got to do now is bide my time for thirty-three short little days, and then Wesley and I and his new muscles can be together, forever and ever—making love whenever we want—every which way we please—and we’ll be filthy rich while we’re doing it, to boot.

  Chapter 39

  19 Years 11 Months Old

  33 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “You’re married?” Wesley booms at me, his face a mixture of rage and devastation.

  “Well, now, hold your horses, Wesley, and let me explain.”

  Wesley springs out of the bed and paces around the tiny motel room, mad as a wet panther. Even though he’s angry and this probably isn’t the right time to ogle the view, I can’t help myself. Wooh-wee, after being with my old man of a husband all this time, it sure is nice to look at a young, good-lookin’, virile man’s chiseled body for a change. I reckon Wesley did his fair share of push-ups and sit-ups in jail, because he looks like he escaped from a museum.

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for you?” Wesley booms, his chest heaving. “And you got married?” He grabs at his hair, overcome with fury and pain. “But you’re my princess bride.” Wesley’s voice cracks at this last part, his face twisting and contorting with his heartbreak.

  My heart is splitting in two. “When you didn’t come to the bus station, Wesley, I thought you’d forgotten all about me. I thought you didn’t love me anymore. You promised to take care of me forever and you didn’t even show up.”

  “Because I was in jail!”

  “But I didn’t know that. And I was just heartbroken. I thought I was gonna curl up and die.” Tears begin to flow. “I didn’t even wanna live anymore without you.” The tears come faster and bigger. “When you didn’t come, I was just as lost as last year’s Easter egg, Wesley. For weeks, I went to that bus station again and again and again, every single day, at exactly noon, just praying you’d show up.” That last part’s a lie—but I have to say it. I’ll say whatever’s got to be said not to lose my Wesley again. “When you didn’t come, I felt so low, I couldn’t jump off a dime. I felt so low, you couldn’t lay a rug under me.” That’s the God’s truth. “And then, oh, Wesley, I went to an audition when I was as low as could be, just feeling like a possum had trotted over my grave, and that’s when I met a rich movie producer and he asked me out to lunch—and, well, you know how beautiful I am, Wesley.” I say this last part like I’m chastising him for how beautiful I am.

  Wesley’s clutching feverishly at his chest like he’s trying to claw his heart right out of his body—or maybe he’s trying to rip his tattoo clean off his flesh.

  “I couldn’t help it if that rich movie producer fell in love with me at first sight,” I continue. “And when he asked me to marry him, well, I figured nothing mattered, anyway. If I couldn’t have you, if you didn’t love me anymore, then what did it matter if I married him or anyone else? Or jumped off a bridge? It was all the same to me—marrying him and dying.” I realize I’ve fudged the timeline of my marriage to Kurtis just a touch, but it’s got to be done. Now that I’ve finally got my Wesley back, I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose him over something as meaningless as exactly when I married Kurtis.

  Wesley’s face is twisted up like I’ve just slammed his pecker into a car door. He puts his hands over his face and lets out a deep sob.

  “Wesley,” I say. “Please, baby. Don’t get yourself all worked up over nothing.”

  His hands remain over his face as his shoulders rack with sobs.

  “Wesley,” I say. My heart is shattering. I can’t lose him again. I have to make him understand. “Marrying that movie producer was the same thing as setting myself down on the railroad tracks and waiting for the train to come,” I say. But then I can’t hold back my emotions anymore—I let out a long, tortured wail.

  Wesley drops his hands from his face and rushes to me, quickly wrapping his muscled arms around me and kissing my tear-stained cheeks. “Shh,” he soothes. “I understand.”

  “I don’t love him, Wesley,” I sob. “I’ve only ever loved you. I love you, Wesley. I’ve always loved you.” This is the God’s truth. “I love you bigger than a sky full of stars,” I say, emotion flooding me. I’ve never said these special words to anyone but my daddy before now. But I sure as heck mean them about Wesley.

  Wesley squeezes me hard. In all the times Wesley and I met and kissed under the big oak tree back home, I never once told him I loved him. And now, all in one magical afternoon, I’ve let him sleep with me (three times!—including sucking on his corndog, which ought to count for something, for crying out loud!), and I’ve told him I love him, too—bigger than a sky full of stars! Yes, okay, it turns out I happen to be married, that’s true—but two out of three ain’t too shabby.

  “Don’t go back,” Wesley says fiercely. “Stay here with me.”

  I wipe my eyes. “I can’t. Kurtis would kill me if I try to leave him.” I’m pretty sure I’m telling the truth about that.

  “I’ll protect you.”

  “You don’t know my husband. I married a very bad man—and a very rich one. You wouldn’t be able to protect me from him forever. He’d find a way. He’d send his goons. As long as Kurtis is breathing, he’s not gonna let another man have me.” I shudder at the thought.

  “Well, then,” Wesley says matter-of-factly, “we’ll just have to kill him, then.”

  At Wesley’s words, I feel that delicious humming inside my body again—an electricity that makes me feel as hot as the hinges of hell. “Funny you should say that, Wesley,” I say.

  I tell him all about the monster inside Kurtis—every last detail about how Kurtis walloped me—until Wesley’s raring to barrel on down to my house and slit Kurtis’ throat tonight.

  “No, Wesley!” I shout at him. “Who do you think the police are gonna blame if you go ahead and kill my husband tonight? Me. The police always blame the dead guy’s wife, especially if he’s rich. And if the wife happens to have an airtight alibi—which I don’t, by the way, since I’ve been here riding you like a mechanical bull for the past three hours—then they figure out right quick who the boyfriend is, and they arrest him.”

  Wesley tries to argue with me, but I interrupt him.

  “Who showed up to my acting class yesterday, looking for ‘Buttercup’ and talking with a Texas twang?”

  He clenches his jaw.

  “And who just sprinted into a seedy motel room together, laughing and cooing and gushing and practically jumping each other’s bones right in front of the sleazy motel clerk?”

  I can tell my words are making an impact on Wesley.

  “Don’t you see? We’re doomed if we do a damned thing right now. And I swear to God, I’m not gonna get you back after all this time just to lose you forever.”

  Wesley looks defeated.

  “But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan that makes it so that in thirty-three short days, we’ll be together forever and ever. We’ll be able to do whatever we want, whenever we want, and we’ll have more money than God while we’re doing it.”

  For the first time ever, I tell Wesley about my daddy, and about how he’s coming to pay Kurtis a visit in exactly thirty-three short little days. “You’ve got to think about the forest and not the trees here, honey. What’s the point in killing Kurtis if it means one or both of us goes to prison forever? Let my daddy do this sweet thing for me—for us. There’s n
othing to connect Daddy to Kurtis. You just make sure you get yourself an alibi thirty-three days from now. Make sure you’re somewhere where a lot of people can see you, so nobody ever thinks for a second it was you who made Kurtis trade his guitar for a harp. If we let my daddy take care of Kurtis, then you and I will be together forever and never have to look over our shoulders again.”

  I give Wesley all the cash I’ve got in my pocketbook, enough to cover rent for an entire week at this low-rent motel, and his eyes bug out at the sight of all that money.

  When I ask him how he’s been managing to pay for things so far, all Wesley says is, “You’d be surprised how many people leave their windows and doors unlocked.”

  “I’ll bring you more cash in exactly a week,” I assure him. And when he looks about to protest, I add, “It’s what’s left of the baseball card money. It’s yours, anyway.”

  Wesley looks so proud of himself, I’m happy to tell him this lie about the baseball card money. Of course, I spent all that money eons ago on new boobs and clothes, but I’d hate for Wesley to think he went to all that trouble stealing Mr. Clements’ baseball cards just so I could buy bouncy new boobs he doesn’t even like.

  Even though I’ve already spent the baseball card money, though, getting cash for Wesley won’t be hard to do. Kurtis leaves more cash just lying around our house on any given day than Wesley’s seen in his whole life. If there’s one nice thing I can say about Kurtis—and one nice thing’s pretty much the most I can manage these days—it’s that he lets me have as much cash as I please to buy books and clothes and makeup and shoes and acting classes and whatnot. I could swipe a couple hundred dollars from around the house and bring it to Wesley, and Kurtis wouldn’t miss that money any more than he’d miss a roll of toilet paper. “And when I bring you the baseball card money, we’ll have another round or two in the sack, too. How does that sound?”

  Wesley grins at that. “Mighty fine.”

  “Until then, just stay out of sight and trust me, okay? And for cryin’ out loud, don’t come to my acting class ever again. Don’t come anywhere near me. We have such a short amount of time to wait, and I’ve got to keep doing everything I always do, so he doesn’t suspect anything—so the police don’t suspect anything when Kurtis is finally six feet under. We don’t wanna go off half-cocked here and cut off our nose to spite our face, okay?”

  “I can’t let you go back there if he’s gonna lay a hand on you.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, honey. There’s someone else who’s become Kurtis’ favorite punching bag, lately. All I have to do is keep him trained on her for the next thirty-three days, and I’ll be sittin’ pretty.”

  Wesley’s face goes dark and his eyes go hard. “Are you gonna sleep with him?”

  “Oh, Wesley.” I stroke Wesley’s cheek to calm him down. “Kurtis is an old man—he’s thirty-six.” I scoff. “Trust me, baby, Kurtis doesn’t even have working parts anymore.”

  Chapter 40

  Hollywood, California, 1992

  20 Years 2 Weeks Old

  1 Day Before Killing Kurtis

  My head bangs against the hotel wall as Kurtis plows into me, groaning and grunting and sweating like a pig all the while. I can sense he’s reaching his limit and can’t hold out much longer, which suits me just fine. These days, all I ever pray for is that sex with Kurtis goes as quickly as possible. Now that I’ve tasted the pleasure of making love to Wesley, sex with Kurtis makes my stomach churn.

  It’s taken a Herculean effort on my part not to go down to that shabby motel every single day to roll around in the sheets with my Wesley. And whenever it’s time for me to leave Wesley and go back home to my husband, it’s like I put the most scrumptious piece of chocolate in my mouth, chewed it once, and spit it into the toilet. It makes no sense. But I’ve got to do it.

  It’s a testament to my strength of will and character that I’ve only sneaked off to see Wesley seven times in the last thirty-two days. All I keep telling myself, over and over again, is “Keep your eye on the prize, Charlene.” And that’s what’s helped me stick with the game plan, even as I imagine Wesley and his taut muscles stretched out on that motel bed just a hop, skip and jump away. Johnny hasn’t been following me lately—I reckon months of watching me read my books out at the pool, sitting in acting classes, or getting my hair primped and nails painted finally bored Johnny to tears and convinced Kurtis he can trust me (or that I’m too boring to worry about, anyway). But I don’t want to get cocky and greedy, especially when I’m this close to the finish line. So, just to be on the safe side, I don’t see Wesley even one-tenth as much as my body’s aching and throbbing to do.

  “Baby,” Kurtis moans, his voice straining.

  I turn my face into his ear, and I exhale sharply, making sure my breathing seems ragged and desperate, as if, despite my best efforts at maintaining my composure, I just can’t control myself. Of course, my dear husband, only you bring out the wide-eyed little girl in me, the girl who believes in happily ever afters and soul mates. I roll my eyes, even as it bangs against the wall with a loud thud.

  Damn it all to hell, Kurtis isn’t finishing. What’s taking so long? Bang, bang, bang. My head continues its assault on the wall of our hotel room.

  “Oh, Kurtis,” I whisper, taking great care to infuse my voice with breathless excitement. Actually, it’s easy to make my voice sound like I’m genuinely turned on right now—all I have to do is think about making love to Wesley and it’s easy as pie. That’s what’s called “method acting.”

  I wait.

  Kurtis is still chugging right along, doing his thing—and moaning and grunting, as well—but undeniably hanging on. Hmmph. I try a few other well-worn tricks until, finally, thankfully, he’s done. I let loose my trademark I’m-just-so-in-love-with-you sigh, the one I’ve perfected over the past year, and he collapses into me, glistening with sweat.

  Kurtis becomes still and his body goes slack. “You’re amazing,” Kurtis says, looking into my eyes and grinning like a cow at milking time. “I love you, baby.”

  “I love you, too, Kurtis,” I reply. And it’s true. I do love Kurtis—in the way you love someone who’s lied to you for well over a year. In the way you love someone whose fingers on your skin make you gag. In the way you love someone who’s whacked you so hard across the side of your face with his fist, it takes weeks for the bruise to completely go away, and shaken you so hard your teeth rattle, and squeezed your arms so hard, he’s left deep bruises on your flesh in the perfect shape of his fingers. In the way you love someone who’s been fucking a whore named Bettie, right under your nose and in your own bed for well over a year, if not longer, as if he doesn’t already have the most loyal and beautiful wife in the world. In the way you love someone who’s sabotaged your greatest chance at happiness by threatening a real director who went to film school and everything, even though you were born to be the Dream Girl in that director’s movie and deserve that part more than anybody. In the way you love someone who’s promised, over and over, to make a legitimate movie-homage to Marilyn Monroe, starring you—and not a porno, mind you, a real movie—and then just lollygagged and dragged his feet and second-guessed and sat around with his thumb up his ass until it’s very obvious, without anyone having to say a damned word, that movie’s never gonna happen.

  Yes, indeed, I love Kurtis.

  To death.

  It’s a real thrill—a turn-on, even, if I’m being honest—to be so close now, so very, very close, after waiting a tortuous year minus one day for fate to take the wheel and drive a freight train over Kurtis’ lying, cheating ass. Being on the eve of Kurtis’ one-way departure from planet earth, I feel somewhat hot and bothered, actually.

  I suddenly kiss Kurtis’ mouth with sincere enthusiasm, and he replies by plunging his tongue into mine. Being so close to killing Kurtis, realizing I’m only one day away from spending every night with sweet Wesley in my own bed and finally having the freedom to go to any audition I want and make any
movie I want to make—finally getting to become the legendary actress I’m destined to be, and having Wesley by my side like my own Joe DiMaggio, too—is an aphrodisiac like nothing I’ve experienced before.

  “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “Again?”

  “Again,” I mutter.

  Might as well send the fucker off with a smile on his stupid, lying face.

  Afterward, as Kurtis and I lie in the hotel bed together, I can’t help but picture Daddy opening my back door (which I checked and re-checked was unlocked before Kurtis and I left the house this morning) and then imagining Daddy entering the house and saying, “Woo-wee!” as he takes in the fanciness of it. For just a moment, I’m sad I’m here and can’t see Daddy’s face light up when he sees my mansion for the first time—but I reckon not seeing Daddy’s face when he enters his new home is a small price to pay to get to see Daddy’s handsome face every single day for the rest of my happy life.

  So far, everything’s worked out from giddy-up to whoa according to what Daddy and I talked about a year ago, so there shouldn’t be any surprises. Getting Kurtis out of the house with me on this little overnight trip turned out to be easy as pie. He was more than willing to spend a night with me in a fancy Beverly Hills hotel as his late twentieth birthday present to me. And, he was equally amenable to letting me spend some time in the hotel’s spa tomorrow morning while he returns home to do God-knows-what.

  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you, Buttercup,” Kurtis says, his voice tentative.

  I turn my head on my pillow toward him.

  “I... I don’t think our Marilyn movie’s gonna happen, after all.”

  I’m stone-faced.

  “Investors think the idea of a movie-homage to Marilyn Monroe is overdone and clichéd.”

  Oh, for cryin’ out loud. Kurtis sure has impeccable timing, doesn’t he? Of course, what he’s saying to me isn’t breaking news—but finally hearing these words out loud, especially on Killing Kurtis Eve, makes me hate my husband in a way I never imagined possible.