Born Savages

by Cora Brent

  “I’m not the one screaming,” Oz responds mildly.

  I have to stop myself from staring at his lips. I have to stop myself from staring at his chest; his broad, absurdly muscled chest that provocatively stretches the fabric of his shirt from all the hard power that coils beneath it…

  “Loren.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Huh? Where?”

  He’s giving me a funny look. It might be because I sound completely sun-addled. He pulls his hat off, rubs the sweat off his forehead and waits for me to make some sense.

  My mouth is as dry as the ground. “I think I need some water.”

  Without pausing, Oz tosses over the bottle he’d been carrying. It’s warm and half gone. I gulp it down anyway

  Alden lets out a triumphant little yip as he clutches a fistful of chicken feathers. I’m watching him and then I reach into my bra, ripping out the microphone. Even though Ava’s history is widely known, I don’t feel like being the one to broadcast it. I look up at Oz but he just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head.

  “No,” he snorts. “I don’t always wear a leash just because some fucker in a suit says so.”

  “Fine. So, about Ava. She can act like the simple-minded socialite. She’s more like a walking heartbreak. I don’t know if you heard about it wherever you were, but she had a role in a short-lived sitcom and started hitting the celeb party scene pretty hard. She got involved with a costar who happened to be one of earth’s more colossal turds. Things went sour even before she got knocked up. The show was cancelled mid season and loverboy wasn’t about to stick around and play daddy. He happens to be another like us, with a famous last name but without two dimes to rub together so there’s no point chasing after him for child support. And that’s just the way it is.” I pause for a breath. “Ava’s a good mom. She is.”

  “I believe you.”

  I shoot him a sharp glance because he sounds like he might be taunting me, but he’s just watching the kid run around with a thoughtful gaze on his face.

  Alden suddenly trots over to me, beaming. “You,” he says and promptly drops the chicken feathers in my lap. I fuss over the bent, half-bald feathers and thank him profusely. Before returning to his chicken torture, Alden stops and stares at Oz. Oz stares back.

  Once Alden is back at his games, I try to return Oz’s water bottle. He ignores my outstretched hand.

  “Tennessee,” he finally says. “I’ve been there for a little while. Got a job, a nice place.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that I wandered.”

  “Wandered?”

  “Yeah, wandered.”

  “You come across any other people in your so-called wanderings?”

  A roughish smile crosses his face. “I came in a lot of other people.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I hiss, standing stiffly.

  “What?” he says innocently. “You don’t want to hear about it? I’m trying to evoke some nostalgia here.”

  “You’re disgusting, Oz.”

  “Probably. But you’re a shell of what you were, Loren.”

  I can’t breathe. If words could pack a punch, those particular ones are made of pure dynamite. Oz Acevedo, formerly Oscar Savage, just distilled my worst horror into one sentence. And he knows it. He waits for me to say something and I desperately want do want to say something. I want to cut him as deeply as he’s just cut me. I want to hurt him. So I tell an enormous lie.

  “I was just a stupid girl. In the long run you didn’t mean a damn thing to me.”

  He doesn’t even blink. “Ditto, sweetheart. You were just a ripe cherry to pop.”

  I’m shaking. I’m going to explode. “God, you’ve turned into such a foul-mouthed pig.”

  He answers me casually, like he doesn’t care at all what I think. “And you’ve turned into a feeble-minded wreck.”

  He doesn’t wait around for my response. He stalks away without glancing back and disappears around the corner of the barn.

  Alden remains oblivious that there is anything more interesting going on than the sight of flustered chickens. Stoically I sit back down and try to banish Oz’s final words from my mind. I don’t know how much the cameras have captured. At this point I can’t force myself to care.

  For the rest of the day I focus on Alden. I feed him lunch, I tend to his scraped knee, I welcome him into my lap when he asks for a story. When Ava gets home she finds us on a back porch swing. Alden shouts with joy when he sees his mother and practically vaults out of my lap and into her arms. I stare at my sister and her child, at the pure, unsullied love between them. In a way I’m almost jealous.

  Ava sits down beside me and sets the boy in her lap. She starts chattering about the disastrous cattle roping experience. Evidently Bree ignored all instructions and managed to get thrown from her horse, earning an ass full of sand and gravel.

  “Well,” I say with false cheer, “I suppose that’s the end of the Savage cowgirl days. Perhaps we should try being farmers instead.”

  Ava’s watching me. “Everything okay on the home front?”

  No.

  “Yup. Everything is fine. If you guys will excuse me, I think I’ll head to the kitchen and bake a cake.”

  “I thought you never cooked anymore.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You used to cook all the time. Back in the bad old days when we lived here. If not for you, we would have been eating cheese sandwiches every night.”

  “Just trying to contribute.”

  “Ren?”

  “What?”

  Ava sighs and heaves herself up with Alden in her arms. “I’d better put this kid in for a nap or he’ll be the devil later on.”

  Someone has been keeping the fridge and pantry well stocked. I have no difficulty finding enough necessary ingredients to bake a yellow cake with buttercream icing. Once I’m in the rhythm of kitchen activity I decide to cobble together a dinner of roast chicken, pasta salad and baking soda biscuits. The oven is something of an antique but it still works when it needs to.

  As soon as I start setting food on the table, my siblings seem to magically materialize. It’s all too familiar. Lita floated far above kitchen tasks and we couldn’t exactly eat out every night all the way out here, even if we’d been able to afford it. If there was any cooking to be done so people could eat, then I was the one to do it.

  I wash dishes in the background as Ava happily feeds her son, while Bree grudgingly takes a few bits of salad and then limps elsewhere, when Spence wanders inside looking as rough as if he’d just spent a few hours running with the bulls, which might very well be accurate.

  There are cameras.

  There is no Monty.

  There is no Oz.

  The sun is sinking below the horizon by the time I finish putting the kitchen back together. Cate Camp knocks on the door. She wants me to know that I seem to have misplaced my body mic. I don’t answer her. I’ll play the game again tomorrow. Tonight I don’t feel like being wired. In a few hours the crew will drive back to town. Of course, cameras are installed all over the property but they seem more innocent when they aren’t attached to people.

  I invent work for myself by cleaning up the house. It’s mindless and nearly pleasant. Anything to avoid thinking about Oz. Every strange sound makes me recoil though. I’m always afraid it’s him. And in a sick way I hope it is him.

  Finally the crew departs. I linger on the front porch with the lights off, listening to the fading sound of the two trucks heading toward Consequences.

  Montgomery lumbers up to the house with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle in the other. He pauses and takes a drag on the cigarette while squinting at the fading light in the western sky. It looks like he’s already made some progress on the bottle.

  “Where’s your fan club?”

  He shrugs. “Gone hours ago. That bitchy photographer had some ideas but I couldn’t get excited about the idea of more of my dick pics
floating around the world wide web so I passed on that.”

  “Charming,” I mutter.

  “You asked,” he yawns.

  “I guess I did. Anyway, there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  Monty doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either. He just stands there puffing on his cigarette while staring into the distance. After a full minute of silence he tilts his bottle in my direction. At first I shake my head but then I take it and cough back a mouthful of liquid fire. Whiskey.

  When I can see straight again I realize Monty is watching me. “I thought he was an asshole then,” he says. “I still think so.”

  “Oscar?”

  “Oscar. Oz. Whatever.”

  “Well, I guess score one for you being right then.”

  “I don’t give a shit about being right. But maybe just because he’s an asshole doesn’t mean he’s a dickhead.”

  “Monty Savage Reasoning at its finest.”

  “Just saying, if he wanted to really fuck up your life he had his chance.”

  “Cameras are still around,” I grumble. “He’ll get more chances.”

  “No he won’t.”

  I’m curious now. “Why?”

  “Because he’s leaving, Ren.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  OZ

  Fuck it all. I’m done.

  The way we are with each other, it’s nothing but toxic.

  In the afternoon I take a long hike and it’s while I’m among the lizards and the snakes that I think about every word Ren and I have exchanged since I got here. However hostile she is to me, I manage to one up her every time. I can’t seem to help it.

  Every day I’m becoming a worse version of myself.

  Did I come here to mess with her head? Or did I come here because despite the pain of the past and the silence of five years I still had some hope? That maybe with one look we would find our way back to those two kids who connected so strongly, loved so hard.

  I don’t know the answer. I never did. This has been one massive fool’s errand. The whim is over now. Loren Savage and I are strangers. Oscar Savage never existed. It’s time for me to duck out of this fantasy and return to the world of Oz Acevedo.

  Evening is well underway by the time I get back. The minute I see Atlantis again I know what I need to do. Once I’m in my room I’m practically kicking shit around from one side of the floor to the other in my haste to pack. It doesn’t seem important that I’ve left the door open until Monty regards it an invitation to park himself in the frame and blow cigarette smoke into the room.

  “Why don’t you take your temper tantrum somewhere that doesn’t share a wall with me?”

  “Fuck you, Monty.”

  “Fuck me,” he chuckles and inwardly I groan because I can tell where this is headed and at the moment I don’t feel like being locked in mortal combat with this jackass.

  I drop a duffel bag on the floor and meet his eye. “You want to do this in here or outside?”

  “Don’t look so terrified, Mr. Oz. At the moment I’m not excited about cutting up my knuckles on your face.”

  “Lucky me,” I mutter, picking up the duffel bag and zipping it shut.

  Monty continues to smoke. He leans against the doorjamb, all puffed up with big ideas about his cocky ass. He’s insane if he thinks he could take me down, especially right now. Right now I feel like I could punch my way through six feet of cinderblock before it would sting. I hate the smell of cigarettes.

  “You know, Oz, I keep trying and I just can’t figure out what the hell your end game is.”

  “Well, you keep on figuring. You can even send me a postcard when you reach a conclusion.”

  His tone gets darker. “I think you’re actually just biding your time, waiting for the right moment when you can hurt her the most.”

  “God, you’re smart, Monty. That’s exactly what I’m fucking doing. That’s why I’m packing up all my shit and getting myself hell and gone from you people and your sick reality.”

  Monty has no answer for that. He doesn’t leave right away either though, so I just keep packing, breathing out of my mouth so I don’t have to smell his disgusting smoke. After I zip the duffel bag closed I notice he’s finally gone. A second later I hear the front door. Good. With any luck I can get out of here without running into him again. Him, or any of the other Savages. If Vogel Productions wants to chase after me for breach of contract or whatever those people call it, best of luck to them.

  I throw two hastily packed bags over my shoulder and head for my truck. It’s parked about twenty yards away, all by itself. I toss the bags into the back bed and slam the door. I think I heard the crew truck taking off a little while ago, which is a good thing because I’m not too excited about explaining myself to anyone right now. There’s an acrid, smoky taste in the air. A fire burns somewhere up north, sparked in the dense forests surrounding Flagstaff. I hear that the season has been dry, meaning any fire will spread quickly. Not down here though. There’s not much in the way of brush so when fires start they don’t burn for long.

  There are just a few more things I need to grab and then I’ll be out of here. It’s quiet, no one in sight, so I should be able to make a clean exit. Now that I’m thinking about it, instead of heading back home straight away I’d rather take a detour for a week or two. Someplace cold. Someplace that looks nothing like the barren wastelands of the Sonoran desert. Montana sounds good. I’ve always been meaning to go see Glacier National Park. This is a perfect time for a fresh odyssey.

  So why is there a gnawing hole in my chest right now? Tomorrow morning I’ll wake up somewhere else. I’ve spent five years troubled by the idea of what would happen if I ever saw Ren again. Now I know. And the answer is nothing. Nothing good, anyway.

  Yes. At least now I know.

  Once I’m back in the house I spend a few minutes snatching up the rest of my crap. There wasn’t much to begin with. And if there’s anything I’m forgetting it’s either replaceable or not worth having in the first place.

  After some quick searches on my phone I calculate that I can be in Montana the day after tomorrow, especially if I push through and drive until morning. I’m so keyed up, I bet I’ll end up doing exactly that.

  When I return to the truck I stop in my tracks for a second because something that looks just like Loren Savage is sitting in the passenger seat. She doesn’t turn her head even though with the window open she must realize I’m ten feet away. She just sits there all statue-like, not even blinking. Her long dark hair falls over her shoulders, grazing the swell of her breasts.

  I open the driver’s side door and climb inside even though I almost can’t stand being this close to her. “Hey, you lost?”

  “Yes.” Her voice is a husky whisper. “I’m lost.”

  I toss the rest of my crap into the back and lean against the side of the truck. “I don’t think I can help you with that, Ren.”

  “I know you can’t.”

  She’s too beautiful. I don’t want to look at her anymore. Instead I look at the last wisps of light in the western sky. “What the hell do you want from me then?”

  “I want you to drive into the desert.”

  “What for?”

  She looks straight at me. “Just drive,” she whispers.

  “Just drive,” I mutter, but I jump behind the wheel.

  At this point I know the surrounding land pretty well. The terrain isn’t that rough until you get real close to the mountains. I drove slowly, using the brights to guide my way around towering saguaros and spectral Joshua trees. After coasting for over a mile I stop and switch off the engine, waiting.

  She’s watching me. My eyes are pretty sharp in the dark, probably on account of spending so much time exploring the underground.

  Damn, the beauty of her can still catch me off guard. Her full lips are parted slightly and I think about tasting them, sucking them. She stares at me for a moment and then glances around the dashboard.

  �
�You got a camera in here?”

  “Fuck no.”

  With no warning she grabs my hand off the steering wheel and presses it firmly to her tits. The hot flesh beneath her flimsy shirt arches against my palm. All the blood in my body roars straight into my cock. Whatever she’s doing, I’m not about to put a stop to it. I flex my hand, lightly squeezing.

  “Harder,” she whispers.

  I get both my hands on her, one palm on each pleading tit, and start kneading them roughly. Ren gasps once, then melts right into the seat, letting out a soft moan and covering my hands with hers. The more I work her the more she gets off on it. She wants me to be rough.

  Fine. I’ll give it to her rough. But it will be my version.

  With a grunt I ball up the front of her shirt in one fist and haul her toward me. I feel the snap of her bra breaking as I get her straddled across my lap. Her hair has fallen in her face so I seize two handfuls of it and yank hard until she winces and finally looks me in the eye.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I growl at her.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Do you now?”

  “You think if we go at it this way, all filthy and empty, that you can kill every bit of unfinished business there is between us.”

  She just stares, stubborn and silent. But the flash in her eyes tells me I’m right.

  I push open the door and drag her outside with me. I slam the door shut and press her against it, pulling her skirt up and parting her legs with my knee.

  “You know what? I need you gone for good too and maybe this is what it’ll take.” When I push my hands between her legs she shudders and grips my shoulders as her body rocks against the rhythm of my crude stroking. She’s ready all right. This is what she’s here for. My cock is so hard I’m about to bust out.

  “Tell me that’s what you’re after.”

  “Yes, Oz,” she pants through gritted teeth. “This is what it’ll take.”

  “And you know that once I’m done with you tonight you’ll just be another dumb snatch I’ve greased.”

  She flinches but doesn’t back down. “And you’ll just be another disposable dick. Like you always were.”