by Jessica Pine
"You done?" she said. "Wanna beat your chest a little more there, King Kong?"
I could feel the blood drain from my face. She'd promised to be nice. She'd promised not to bait him, but he always had to push. He could never leave anything alone.
"Who wants pie?" I said. My voice sounded as thin as a birdcall.
Justin gave one of those humorless snorts of laughter that even then I knew meant nothing good.
"What the fuck would you know," he said, looking directly at Everglade. "About honest and unpretentious?" His accent was stronger when he was angry. I knew right then that he'd worked himself into a good old-fashioned sulk, the way he often did when faced with money and privilege. He was always fond of his role as working class hero, although I'd never known him to hold down a job for more than two weeks at a time; his hair trigger was always getting him fired.
"I guess I know enough to say thank you when someone passes me the fucking potatoes," said Everglade. I could have strangled her in that moment. I thought she of all people would understand how much this dinner meant to me. To both of us. And instead she was channeling her goddamn lunatic mother.
He snorted again.
"Oh, I get it," he said. "You rich little W.A.S.P. kids wanna beat me over the head with Emily Post? How many thank yous do you think my ancestors heard when your ancestors fucking stole their land and gave them all syphilis?"
Alex frowned.
"You're First Nations? I thought you were Cajun?"
"He is Cajun," said Everglade. "Cajun as a goddamn catfish."
"Cajun and Cree, actually."
"Bullshit. You're about as Cree as the Queen of England's tits."
"Will you stop it?" I said. "Please? All I wanted is for everyone to have a good time. Is that so hard?"
"I dunno," said Everglade. "Ask Running Mouth over there."
Justin leapt up from the table.
"That's racist!"
She glared up at him.
"No, what's racist is co-opting another culture's goddamn suffering to justify why you're in a fucking snit because someone dissed a shitty book you like. Now either sit down and shut up or leave."
He got up from the table. I barely even heard Everglade calling my name; I didn't want him to go. This meant so much to him too, I knew, but that was Justin all over - always with a finger hovering over the Self Destruct button.
I found him outside, smoking a cigarette.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
He gave me a look of utter contempt.
"I'm doing what, exactly? She fucking started it - she always does. She hates me."
"She hates everyone," I said, trying to turn it into a joke. "I wouldn't take it personally. Please, Justin - come back in. We made pie. The filling isn't even canned."
Justin sighed, but there was half a lopsided smile on his lips and my heart leapt to see it.
"Pie?" he said, failing to hide the laugh in his voice. I reached out for his hand and he pulled me close, my ear against his muscled chest. "So bourgeois," he said. "Fucking pie."
He laughed in despair at me and I shook as I reached up to cup his face in my hands. His kiss was slow and smoky, but I didn't care how it tasted - just as long as he still wanted me.
"Let's get married," he said.
"What?"
"Let's get married. Let's do something crazy before we die, or start giving two shits about pie fillings."
I laughed, but my heart felt bigger and hotter than the sun at that moment. Really? Me? Was he serious?
"We can't," I said.
"Sure we can. Drive out to Vegas. Find a drive through chapel with an Elvis impersonator."
"Justin..."
"What?" he said, his blue eyes full of love and light once more. "What's the matter, cher? Did you have your wedding day all figured out? Silver shoes and a pretty white dress? Shame on you - no room for the King of Rock n' Roll in that fantasy of yours?"
Was he nuts? It didn't matter. Maybe once I would have been pissed to abandon my childhood dreams of trailing veils and lily of the valley, but the only wedding I could ever imagine now was one where he was the groom. Somewhere in the back of my mind was a soft, sane voice, telling me that I couldn't get married - was I even legal to drink in Nevada? - but he loved me again. He wasn't mad at me any more. And that was all that mattered.
I ran back up the stairs, determined to punish him by making him wait for his answer. He chased me and I crashed through the door of my bedroom with a playful shriek, prompting Everglade to come running. She banged on the door and called my name, but Justin was already on me, fighting with the buttons of his jeans.
"Amber? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said, trying to keep my voice normal as he entered me, roughly and without any kind of ceremony. It hurt a little - I wasn't nearly wet enough - but I loved the look on his face whenever he first pushed inside, like this look of perfect peace.
"Say yes," he whispered, thrusting gently. "Say you'll marry me."
I bit my lip and wrapped my legs around his back. The pain faded as my body caught up with my brain. I squeezed my muscles around him and when I saw the look of hunger in his eyes it was like my blood caught fire. Surely it wasn't normal to want someone this much.
"Say yes." He bent to kiss me, his hips moving in time with the beats of my heart. I moaned into his mouth and his breath went ragged for a moment, before he took his cue and started to go harder.
Then I shifted my hips and he was there - his next thrust hit that twitchy spot inside of me.
"Yes," I said, rising up to meet him. It was still new to me, that something could feel this good.
"Yes?"
"Yes."
He looked like his soul was about to spill out of his eyes in that moment. He buried his face in my shoulder and his voice hissed hot against my ear.
"I love you. I fucking love you, baby. So fucking much."
I made a dumb, hungry animal sound in response. His hips were all at the wrong angle now and I was on the edge.
"Please," I moaned.
He raised himself up on his hands and looked down at me, holding himself still inside me. He looked so pleased with himself, and well he might do - he could see what he'd done to me. My skirt and panties were on the floor, my top and bra tangled up under my chin, so that my nipples poked out obscenely. When I raised my head I could see the bunched muscles of his flat belly, the trail of hair where he disappeared into me.
"Say you love me," he said, with an evil, teasing smile on his lips.
"Iloveyou..." It came out all in one breath. He angled his hips and hit the spot just right, so that I had to bite my lip hard to keep from crying out.
"Again."
"I love you. Please. Please..."
"You like that, baby?" He started to move with hard, sweet stabs. I never minded him running his mouth off, not when he was deep inside me and every motion of our bodies dragged filthy endearments from his lips. I was his slut, his honeyfuck, his sweet, darling whore. He did it on purpose - of course he did. When I cried out he'd won - Everglade heard me. She knew what was up. I loved him best. He'd proved it. That was the whole point of the exercise.
It's hard to look at things in this light.
Chapter Eleven
Jaime
I'm going too fast on Laurel.
I can't stop. If I stop I'll think about what I'm doing and if I think about it I'll be shaking too hard to hold the wheel. Oh my God, those bends. One slip of the wheel and you'll go ninety miles an hour into a tree. You don't come back from a crash at that kind of speed. Blood, brains, shattered bone - all those lovely images from Drivers Ed PSAs come back to me in glorious Technicolor.
Somehow I keep my head until the road straightens out, and then it's like I drove into a Hollywood version of Mad Max. Bikes, all around me. They're zipping past, in and out of the gaps in cars. And the worst thing I know is why. She's up there at the front of them all.
And it's my fault, isn't
it? If I hadn't pointed out that camera...
I can see her - she's maybe three or four cars ahead. I see the taillights of the Escalade. They're safe, right? Everyone says those SUVs are like tanks.
But she's driving like a maniac and I can't overtake. There's a biker to one side and a mini-van on the other. He has a bulky camera bag strapped to the back of his bike. Were they lying in wait for her, the whole time? Were they seriously lurking in the Hills waiting for her to drive out of the gates? That’s just nuts.
The bike picks up speed and there's soon another one in its place. My problem now is the fucking mini-van, coasting along at about sixty. I catch a glimpse of the driver - a serene looking blonde. The mid lane slows suddenly and I'm left looking at the back of her van - one of those Baby On Board stickers and that little fish symbol that people like to use to show people that Jesus wants them for a sunbeam. Protestants, I guess. I've never known a Catholic with one of those things - we know you can't get out just by taking the fish sign off your car.
I wind down the window and stick my head out. There's a light up ahead, flashing in a busted, panicky way that makes my heart nearly leap out of my chest.
Oh shit, shit, shit. For an insane second I think of Princess Diana.
The midlane moves enough to give me a gap, and I take it, cutting in front of the soccer mom. As I take off I catch a brief glimpse of her giving me a very unChristian hand sign in the rear view mirror.
There's a mess all right - three bikes piled up at the side of the road. I wish I had more sympathy, but what did they expect? I chase Amber's taillights all the way to the freeway exit, then by some miracle I'm alongside. I can see her profile through the smoked glass, then the white of her cheek as she turns round to look at me. She lowers the window and I've never seen anything quite like her face at that moment - she's so scared. She's so far out of her depth it's a wonder she can even remember to breathe.
Then there's an explosion of light all around us. She hides her face from the flashes.
"Leave her alone!" I yell. "Leave her the fuck alone!"
I can hardly see - it's bright as daylight, but they yell over the sound of their idling engines. "Amber, Amber, Amber, Amber! Look over here, Amber! Amber, do you have anything to say to Mr. Theroux's family?"
She raises her window once more. Behind me I hear the wail of police sirens. The Escalade leaps ahead at the first opportunity and I follow. Nothing matters but getting her home, away from these vultures.
The paparazzi fall away as we head north. Either the highway patrol caught up with them or they had better things to do. Amber slows, then my adrenaline spikes once more as she begins to swerve. She reels across the highway like a drunk, prompting angry horn blasts. For a moment I think she's going to crash, but as she approaches the side of the road she slows like a clockwork toy winding down. She comes to a halt maybe three inches from a signpost.
I leap out and bang on the door of the Escalade. When she opens the door she practically spills out, her mouth wide open as she gasps for air. Figures - thank God she slowed down before her panic attack got any worse.
"Breathe. It's okay. It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here."
She slides down onto the verge and fights to catch her breath.
"Oh shit," she says, when she can speak again. "Oh shit shit shit."
"Shh. Everything's fine. You're safe. They turned back about ten miles ago."
Amber exhales slowly through pursed lips.
"Why? What happened?"
"Police, I guess. That or someone tipped them off that Lady Gaga had been spotted wearing jeans and t-shirt."
She lets out a shaky little laugh, but it's like her face doesn't know whether to laugh or cry and suddenly she's doing both.
"Don't make me go back," she says, still breathless. "Please, Jimmy. Don't make me go back."
"We've got to go back, Amber. Your Dad..."
"No. No." She swallows and pulls her hair back from her face, twisting it up in a scrunchie. "I can't go back. I can't go back to living in a fucking bubble. I'm crazy as it is - it was only making me worse, don't you see?"
"Amber, please. Get back in the car."
She scrambles to her feet and for a wild moment I think she's going to do something really nuts, like start running and screaming. But she doesn't. She stands with her back to the door of the Escalade, hugging herself.
"If I do, will you take me home?"
I nod. I'm not going to lie to her - she'd see through me in an instant anyway.
"I have to," I say. "It's my job. I'm supposed to protect you."
She bites her lips, making them red. She's breathing too hard and she looks like she might shake apart, but I nearly faint with relief when she nods her head.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay?"
"Okay. Yes. I understand."
"Good. It's not safe out here. You don't need that. You need to get well - not run around being chased by the paparazzi."
Her tongue darts out over her lower lip again.
"Okay," she says, and opens the rear door of the SUV. "Take me home."
"Thank you," I say.
"It's all right - I understand. I don't want you to get into any trouble."
"Probably too late, but thanks."
She climbs into the back.
"Let me just get changed, okay? They know what I'm wearing."
I lock up the security vehicle and get into the driver's seat of the Escalade. She's futzing with her bag in the back seat. I catch a glimpse of her bare arms and reach up to adjust the rearview mirror, so as to spare her modesty. But she catches my eyes in the mirror and there's a Mona Lisa smile dancing in the corners of her lips. She looks me right in my reflected eyes and peels off her t-shirt. No bra. Her breasts are small and round, peach soft and pale. I'm hard in an instant - hard and stupid as all hell.
Quickly, I look away. She knows what she's doing and I'm an idiot for falling for it, but when she's dressed in black she has the same glow as a pearl on velvet. Or maybe one of those old movie stars, whose skin was never anything but white, those beautiful black and white ghosts with their dark mouths and razor thin eyebrows.
By the time I hear the click, it's too late.
There’s a gun pointed at the back of my head.
"Drive," she says. "North. Don't turn back. We need to find the exit for the Coast Highway."
I start the car. My hand's shaking. I think hers is too, but it's hard to tell and I don't dare turn around to check. I don't think she'd shoot deliberately but she's wired, tired and always on edge. The slightest jump or startle and the inside of the windshield is gonna be decorated in a fetching new shade of brain.
"Amber," I say, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. "Please put the gun down."
Where the hell did she even get that? Right away I know the answer will be waiting for me on the security footage back at the house. It’s the Bond gun, the one that was hung under the picture of Daniel Craig.
I always wondered if it was a prop or the real deal.
I feel the solid shape of my own piece digging into my hip. Unlike her, I know how to use it. Too bad I've already fastened my seatbelt - I could have reached for it then.
"Drive," she says, again. "I don't want to have to shoot you."
"That makes two of us." If that’s not a real gun she’s picked up the acting gene from her old man. Underneath my shirt I can feel the sweat run down between my shoulders. I'm conscious of every move I make, every flicker of my eyeballs, every beat of my heart. I'm nothing but bone and gristle and sweat, but I'm alive, I'm alive. Funny how it takes a gun pointed it at your brainstem to make you realize how much you're going to be missing. And worse, you might not even miss it. You might not even know.
I keep going north.
"Follow the signs for Monterrey," she says. "I'm sure there's an exit somewhere."
The engine roars as I pick up speed. The window is down a notch on the driver’s side and the wind whips pas
t my ear, deafening me. I would have to turn my head to speak, so I don't. All I can do is keep driving and pray that she eventually lowers the gun. Sooner or later her arm will get tired.
We reach the exit and head for the Cabrillo Highway. Sunny Southern California is fading with the evening light. The orange trees give way to evergreens and the wide ocean beaches to rocky shores. I've never been this far north before and it seems like a strange set of circumstances in which to realize that it's beautiful. But it is. And I have to. I have to hang onto the beauty of the rocks and the trees and the sky, because they may be the last things I ever see.
Amber catches her breath in an impatient hiss. For a heart stopping second I think she's going to lower the gun, but no - she's just switching hands. She shakes her cramped left hand and holds the gun awkwardly in her right. Great - of all the fucking times to find out she's left-handed, one fumble away from blowing my brains all over the dashboard.
And now there's another pressing concern. I need to piss, and she's not helping shaking that gun barrel next to my head. I slow down, enough to make my voice heard over the sound of the engine.
"Amber, please. I have to pee."
I catch a glimpse of her eyes in the mirror. She's so out of her depth it's not even funny.
"No."
"Amber, I swear to God - I am not fucking around. I'm not going to try anything. I just need to pee."
Out of the far corner of my eye I see the gun wavering. She shakes her head.
"I'm not going back to L.A."
"I know that," I say. "And I'll drive you wherever you want to go. Just put the gun down."
She snorts.
"How stupid do you think I am, Jimmy?"
"I don't think you're stupid at all," I say, through dry lips. My mouth is parched, a steep contrast to the other end of me, where my bladder feels like a giant watercooler. "I swear - we'll go wherever you want to go."
Her eyes are cold and glittery - her Dad's eyes. I don't think she understands exactly how scared I am right now. Can she even see past her own panic? What is she capable of? What the hell did she do? I think back to the paparazzi, to the questions they were screaming at her.
"You won't call the police?" she says.
