by Lauren Rowe
Kurtis runs his hand through his hair, obviously distraught. “Oh my God, Buttercup—”
“I’ll hear your side of things, Kurtis Jackman, because, as your good and loyal wife, I owe you that. But if you are planning to toss me out and replace me with Bettie, and if you are making a Bettie Page movie starring your whore, then just tell me now so I can move along and mend my shattered heart as quickly as possible.”
Kurtis springs up from the couch. He’s a raging lion, but not toward me. I can see his monster already coming out. “Buttercup, please.”
“Tell me the truth right now.”
He exhales loudly. “Yes, okay, yes, I’ve always had this thing for Bettie Page—the real Bettie Page, not Bettie from the club—and I’ve always wanted to make a Bettie Page biopic one day.” He shakes his head adamantly. “But not starring Bettie! Sure, I might have told Bettie about my Bettie Page biopic, just in passing, but I never promised to make her the star of it.”
“Since when do you share your hopes and dreams with a two-bit stripper from the club?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Apparently, he can’t come up with a plausible explanation.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, clamping my hand over my mouth. “Bettie was telling the truth—about all of it.” I leap up from the couch like I’m going to march out of the room.
“Wait! No! Listen!”
I stop and stand with my arms crossed. “Tell me the truth right now or I’m leaving you for good.”
“I... I... “ Kurtis stammers.
I turn to leave.
“Wait!”
I stop and stare, my chest heaving.
He closes his eyes for a beat, apparently mustering his courage. “Yes, I did have sex with Bettie.” He opens his eyes. “But only a couple times.”
He’s so full of shit, his eyes are brown. I feign a look of devastation. “Here at the house?”
“No.” He shakes his head furiously. “Never at the house.”
This here’s a man who’d beat you senseless and tell God you fell off a horse.
“I’m weak sometimes,” Kurtis says. “I’m bad. We both know that.” His eyes are pleading with me. “You told me I could do anything with anyone else, as long as I didn’t raise a hand to you—and I’ve kept good on that.”
I bite my lip. “Hmmph.” My nostrils are flaring. “I did say all that, didn’t I?”
He nods profusely.
I soften. “And I meant it.”
Kurtis lets out the longest exhale of his life.
“As much as it hurts my heart to find out you’d rather sleep with someone that feels like throwing a hotdog down a hallway than make love to your sweet wife who’s never been with another man, I reckon I’ll just have to learn to live with it, if that’s how you manage to keep your monster away from me.”
Kurtis’ entire body relaxes into palpable relief.
“It breaks my heart—it really does—but I’ll just have to learn to move past the pain. Because I love you just that much.”
“Oh, baby—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“But, even so, Bettie’s crossed a line here today, Kurtis Jackman,” I say.
Kurtis nods vigorously. “She sure as fuck has.”
“She sure as fuck has,” I repeat with intensity, and Kurtis’ eyes blaze at my use of profanity. “She’s fucked with the wrong wife,” I say slowly, squinting at him. “Because you’re mine, Kurtis.”
Kurtis’ eyes ignite like Roman candles. He’s never seen me exhibit jealousy before, and I reckon he likes it. Good. That makes my job much easier.
Much to Kurtis’ obvious surprise, I begin to disrobe, slowly, never taking my eyes off him. I drop my clothes on the floor, step out of my panties, and move to him, wearing nothing but my pretty smile.
His chest is rising and falling like he’s just finished running a hundred-yard dash. Without saying a word, I lick my lips, unzip and lower his pants, and drop to my knees in front of him. When I take his full length into my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat, Kurtis lets out a loud groan—and after just a few minutes of me working on him, his passion is quite obviously on the verge of boiling over.
When he growls like a grizzly bear and I feel him start rippling inside my mouth, I abruptly stop what I’m doing, push him onto the couch, and straddle him, taking him into me like a greased pig in a chute.
“Oh my God,” Kurtis groans. “Oh my fucking God.”
In the entire time we’ve been married, I’ve never once initiated sex with Kurtis, let alone sucked on his one-eyed jack. “I love you, baby,” I purr, moving my body up and down on top of him.
Kurtis is beside himself. He throws his head back and growls.
“But I’m leaving you for good if you don’t permanently fix this situation tonight. I don’t care how much booze you need to drink to do it; I don’t care how you’re gonna do it—if you wanna squeeze the life out of that woman with your bare hands or slit her goddamned throat with a blade or slam her fucking head into a brick wall...”
As my movement becomes more and more intense, Kurtis begins furiously grabbing at me, his pleasure on the verge of erupting.
“However you decide to fix things, just make sure you prove to me in no uncertain terms that you choose your wife over your fucking whore,” I say.
I grind my body into him with sudden emphasis and Kurtis makes a tortured sound. He grabs my butt and furiously guides my movement on top of him, and, much to my surprise, my body begins squeezing and clenching furiously from the inside out. Good lord, I’m about to boil over like an unwatched pot. I let out a long, deep moan. “You better let your monster out and show me how much you love me.” Kurtis jolts and bucks underneath me. “You show her she fucked with the wrong wife.” I can’t hold out any longer. My body explodes with pleasure, seizing and clenching ferociously around Kurtis’ hard-on, over and over.
“Oh my God,” Kurtis says, his fingers digging into my back.
After a minute, when my pleasure has subsided and I’ve returned to my right mind, I see that Kurtis isn’t quite finished yet—but he’s damned close.
I lean down and press my lips against his ear. “You understand what you’ve got to do?”
He makes a sound like he’s a bear caught in a steel trap.
“You understand what’s expected of you?”
His entire body jerks and jolts with a massive release.
I sit up and wipe the sweat off my brow. I’ll take that as a yes.
Chapter 44
20 Years 2 Weeks 4 Days Old
Killing Kurtis Day + 4 Days
I’ve been waiting up all night for Kurtis. For Pete’s sake, dawn’s an hour away—where the hell is he? How long does it take to kill someone once you’ve set your mind to it? For hours and hours, I’ve been pacing back and forth across the living room and jumping like a cricket every time I hear a noise.
Where is he?
Did I push him too hard? Did I show him too many of my cards? Is he coming back, or did he decide to ditch me for Bettie after all? All night long, I’ve been playing and replaying my earlier conversation with Kurtis over and over again in my mind, wondering if this whole time I’ve been a mad genius or a downright fool.
Finally, the front door opens just before sunrise, and Kurtis stumbles in, blitzed out of his mind and crying like a baby. Sweet Jesus, the man looks like he’s recovering from an autopsy.
“Did you do it?” I gasp, barely able to get the words out. I take a good look at him from head to toe. I don’t see anything but snot on his yellow shirt. Where’s the blood on his shirt? Was he naked when he killed her? Did he strangle her to a bloodless death? Or did he simply fail to complete his assignment?
Kurtis scrunches up his face, wallowing in self-loathing. He mumbles something incoherent, followed by a slurred, “Don’t leave me.”
“Did you do it or not, Kurtis?” I can’t read his sudden outpouring of emotion. Is he hysterical because he d
idn’t do it—or because he did? I grab his hands. The knuckles on his right hand look red and swollen—or am I seeing what I want to see? “Did you do it?” I ask again, this time shrieking like a maniac.
Kurtis just keeps muttering, “Don’t leave me,” over and over, so I can only assume he’s failed miserably. I throw his hand down. Damn it! I asked Kurtis to do one little thing for me—just one cotton pickin’ little thing. I knew Kurtis was all broth and no beans, but this beats all. Now I know what my husband’s made of—marshmallows and rainbows and goddamned roses surrounded by buttercups. The man’s all hat and no cattle, a goddamned embarrassment. Yet again, if I want anything done, I’ve got to do it myself.
“Go upstairs,” I say coldly. “I need time to think.” Am I the only person on this entire planet with a little bit of backbone?
Kurtis doesn’t move.
“Go upstairs!” I shout. “You’ve gotta sleep this off.”
“Don’t leave me,” Kurtis sobs again, clutching at me. “I love you, Buttercup.”
“Stop whining like a toddler begging for candy and go upstairs.” I peel his hands off me.
Kurtis wobbles in place and stares at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Stop acting like a pussy-ass and get the fuck upstairs!” I shriek.
He lets out a muffled sob.
“Go!”
Kurtis turns and shuffles up the stairs.
I’m too wired to sleep. I pace the room furiously, trying to get my mind right. There are a thousand ways to kill someone if you set your mind to it, even if you’re not half as brawny as Kurtis. I could sneak through Bettie’s window tonight and hit her with a golf club while she sleeps. Or maybe go over there and slit her throat with a knife covered in Kurtis’ fingerprints. Or I reckon I could go over there with a big bottle of champagne and a little pouch of rat poison and say, “Hi, Bettie. I’ve come to make peace!”
I shake my head. Damn. I don’t know what to do. All I know is I can’t wait another day to be with Wesley and begin fulfilling my sacred destiny. Shoot.
Regardless, though, I can’t do whatever I’m going to do ’til the dark of night. Might as well get some rest now so I can clear my head and figure things out.
I begin climbing the staircase like I’m trudging through molasses. With each step I take, despair crashes down harder and harder on top of my head. Is it possible I’m not destined to be seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world, after all? Or to lie naked in my own bed with the man I love? Am I destined for loneliness and heartbreak and nothing else, forevermore?
Up in the bedroom, Kurtis is passed out on the bed, naked and spread out on his belly like a cold picnic lunch. His bare butt looks like two ham hocks in a tow sack right now—I could vomit at the sight of it. There’s a fire roaring in the fireplace. I stand close to the flames, letting the heat waft over my back as I stare at Kurtis’ naked body on the bed. Tears form in my eyes. A scream of despair wants to escape my throat, but I stuff it down. For a moment, I stand stock still, staring at Kurtis, trying to figure out what the hell to do. But I just can’t think clearly.
Jesus, I’m too damned young to feel this damned tired.
With a loud sigh, I pick up Kurtis’ shirt off the ground and examine the pale yellow fabric, hoping against hope to find a telltale splatter of blood. But nope. I don’t see a drop of blood anywhere. Not a single drop. I turn it over and over, looking for the faintest speck of blood, but there’s nothing. Surely, blood would be easy as pie to spot against the yellow of Kurtis’ shirt. Is it possible he did the deed without getting blood on his shirt? Or did he just not do it at all?
I let out a long exhale.
Maybe it’s time to give up on my sacred destiny.
Maybe it’s time to admit defeat.
Maybe it’s time to move on.
Wilber the cat jumps up onto the bed and I pick him up. He’s soft and warm in my arms. He purrs loudly at my touch and I kiss the top of his head. “Oh, Wilber,” I whisper—and suddenly every hair on my body stands on end. I am Charlie Wilber’s Daughter. I don’t admit defeat. I don’t “move on.” I’ve got a sacred destiny to fulfill and the sweetest man in the world waiting on me. It’s time to get my butt off my shoulders.
I toss Wilber onto the bed.
What if I were to smash a pillow over Kurtis’ drunk-ass face right now? It’s possible the medical examiner might say Kurtis choked on his own drunken tongue, isn’t it? Even if Kurtis is filthy rich and I stand to inherit all his money? Or what if I grab that big butcher knife from the kitchen and plunge it into my husband’s back, right here and now, and carve him up like an Easter ham? I could say Kurtis came home, drunk and ornery, and beat the crap out of me. Yeah, I could say I had to kill the bastard to defend myself. By plunging a butcher knife into his back while he was splayed out naked on the bed? Gosh dang it, I’m losing my mind.
Fuck a duck. My give-a-shitter just broke. I don’t care about being clever anymore; I just want my freedom, come hell or high water. I just want to be with Wesley. I can’t wait another minute to start my new life with him. After I do this one more thing, I swear to God, I’m gonna be good and pure from here on out. I just have to do this one little thing, and then I’m gonna start fresh. I really am. I’ll be as gentle and sweet as a newborn lamb.
I pick up a pillow from the empty side of the bed and move around toward Kurtis’ sloppy face. My dear husband’s gonna choke on his own drunken tongue tonight. The time for waffling and wringing my hands is done.
Oh lord, I’m shaking like a jackhammer on asphalt.
Is Kurtis drunk enough for this to work? Am I strong enough to press down as hard as needed? What if he wakes up when I’ve got the pillow over his face and starts pummeling me? Shoot, I don’t care. I’ll risk it. I’ve got to do something. I’m losing my mind.
I stand directly over Kurtis, holding the pillow, summoning my courage.
Dang it. It’s now or never.
I place the pillow onto Kurtis’ gaping face and press down with all my might, grunting with the effort, and, much to my relief, Kurtis doesn’t even stir.
There’s a loud commotion downstairs and a frantic knocking at the front door.
I freeze. Who could that be at this hour of the morning? And banging so loudly, too? Could my Wesley possibly be so foolish as to come here now?
There’s another crashing knock.
I remove the pillow from Kurtis’ face, my arms quivering.
Is it Bettie? After all the times I’ve lied about her calling and coming over to the house, did I tempt wicked fate?
There’s more frantic knocking downstairs.
Damn it all to hell. I don’t have time to kill my husband right now, though he’s in dire need of killing. I take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself, Charlene.
I look at Kurtis, spread out on the bed. He’s not going anywhere. I’ll do what needs to be done after I take care of whoever’s knocking downstairs.
Suddenly, in the midst of all that frantic knocking, I hear a man’s voice I don’t recognize.
“Open up!” the voice shouts.
It’s definitely not my Wesley. Who is that?
“Open up!” the voice shouts again. “It’s the police!”
Chapter 45
20 Years 6 Months 4 Days Old
Killing Kurtis Day + 164 Days
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor begins. “The People of the State of California will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Kurtis Jackman savagely beat and killed Elizabeth Franklin, known by her stage name as Bettie Paigette, in her apartment during the wee hours of the morning on the fifth of February.”
I’m dressed to the nines, sitting in the front row of the peanut gallery. Woo-wee, I’ve never looked more gorgeous in all my life. First of all, my hair looks better than ever, and that’s no exaggeration. It took some doing, but I’ve finally settled on the perfect shade of blonde for my skin tone—not too light to wash me out, but definitely blo
nde enough to turn every head when I walk into any room. And my costuming is also right on point, too. Given the seriousness of the situation and considering the influence of my strict upbringing, I’m wearing a tailored Chanel suit with mile-high, strappy heels (that last part to give the suit a little jolt of sex appeal), all of it accessorized by a certain sparkling star sitting atop a diamond cross around my neck—a small but unmistakable show of support for my wrongfully-accused husband. I’d hate for him to feel completely alone during this difficult and anxiety-producing time. Goodness gracious, I’m a loyal and kind wife—and a flat-out knockout, too.
On the way into court earlier, a horde of photographers surrounded me on the courthouse steps, snapping so many flashbulb pictures, I could barely see straight. “Buttercup,” they all shouted at me at once. “Are you standing by your man?” “Look over here!” “Do you believe in your husband’s innocence?” I covered my face with my hand like I didn’t want the photographers to get a good shot of me—but of course I waited to do that until I was sure every last one of them had gotten a good shot of me.
“No comment,” I demurred, puckering my lips just so. “I’d appreciate some privacy during this difficult time.”
And now that I’m sitting in court, just behind the railing, I’m wringing my hands in my lap as doubt slowly descends upon me like an egg cracked over my head. Kurtis couldn’t have done this horrible thing to that poor girl, bless her heart—could he? I just won’t believe it. But... wait a minute—did he? Because, gosh, despite my desperate desire to believe in the innocence of my beloved porno-king husband, it sure doesn’t look good for the man.
