TOMCATS
BOOK ONE
BY HONEY PALOMINO
COPYRIGHT © 2018 HONEY PALOMINO
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WORLDWIDE
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only. This book contains mature content and is intended for adults only.
TOMCATS
BOOK ONE
BY HONEY PALOMINO
PROLOGUE
Matilda Thorne lay on her bed watching a movie on a black and white television in the bedroom she shared with her mother. At twelve years old, with no friends or siblings to speak of, she’d learned to entertain herself with the few channels she managed to coax from the broken rabbit ears.
Sad and drunk, her mother usually left her to her own devices, giving up any pretense of a regular household around a quarter past four every afternoon, approximately thirty minutes after she picked Matilda up from school.
That’s when, come hell or high water, Mary Thorne placed the needle on her Loretta Lynn record and turned up the volume, right before reaching for her bottle of Southern Comfort. She would have been drunk from a steady stream of Coors for hours, though. She just waited till she’d gotten her daughter home safely from school before she broke into the bottle.
Half an hour later, she sang at the top of her lungs, her caterwauling pouring out of the windows of the dingy green trailer they lived in and floating into the windows of their neighbor’s equally dingy trailers at the Big Pines Trailer Park in deep East Texas.
“I was born a coal-miner’s daughterrrrrr,” Mary squealed.
Matilda turned the volume up on the television, eyeing the bedroom door and contemplating how much longer it would be before her Mama passed out.
“In a cabin, on a hill in Butcher Hollar…” She danced around the tiny living room, tripping on the shag rug and falling into the wall. Matilda’s baby picture fell to the ground, the frame splintering into pieces at her bare feet.
That didn’t stop her from singing though.
Or dancing.
Her hips swayed seductively, as she closed her eyes and danced with an imaginary lover.
“We were poor but we had love, that’s the one thing my Daddy made sure of…”
From the bedroom, Matilda rolled her eyes and jumped up from the bed, sliding the flimsy plywood folding door across the metal frame. It never closed completely, the gap a constant reminder that she didn’t live in a normal home, with normal doors…and certainly not normal parents.
The barrier did little to drown out the sound of her drunken mother, singing about a kind of love she’d never found and never would.
Matilda knew they were poor.
She also knew they most certainly did not have love.
What they had was something else entirely.
A tolerance.
A co-existence.
A waiting period, essentially, at least as far as Matilda was concerned.
In six short years, she’d be an adult and she could get out of there and get on with her life.
So far, she’d learned most everything she knew about the world from movies. They provided her with precious confirmation that her current existence was not a life sentence, that there was a whole different world out there, just waiting for her to grow up and reach out and claim it.
Like the movie she was currently watching — the title alone was enough to give her hope. The heroine in The Grass Is Always Greener quickly became one of Matilda’s most beloved characters. ‘Princess’ was her name, which impressed Matilda right away. A girl named ‘Princess', imagine that, she thought. She watched with the attentiveness of an eager student, drinking in every detail of Princess’s beaded wedding gown, her eyes dragging over the long train with envy. Drowning in marble and gilded mirrors, her mansion was the stuff dreams were made of.
Matilda’s dreams, that is.
Someday, she promised herself, someday. All of that will be mine…
This movie is like any other fairy tale, of course. She’d watched dozens of them. Most of them exactly the same…
The beautiful, young woman meets a rich, handsome man who promptly sweeps her off her feet, marrying her in a joyful ceremony with a set of devoted bridesmaids standing at her side. Later, in front of an adoring crowd, they’ll lovingly and playfully place slices of a towering layered cake made of buttercream flowers into each other’s mouths. Under a storm of flying rice, they’ll fade off into the sunset to their honeymoon in the French Alps or perhaps, The Seychelles, to the tune of clattering cans and a chorus of well-wishes.
Smiling and tan, they’ll return to a palatial French chateau high up on a hill, a grand marble staircase in the foyer spiraling up to an enormous bedroom that they never really show you in the films, but you can only assume will provide the lush backdrop to countless, blissful and of course, respectable, love-making sessions. Between only the two of them and nobody else until death do they part, of course.
This particular movie went on a little longer than some. The story continued after the wedding, the story unfolding as Princess blessed her hard-working, knight-in-a-tweed-suit-and-spectacles with a champion stable of mini-me’s that filled their home with life. And by life, I mean a stampede of little pattering feet and chocolate covered fingertips charmingly smeared on the refrigerator.
Matilda watched with the greenest envy a child of twelve could possess.
What made Princess better than her?
Other than a name, what kept Matilda from living that same dream?
Why had she been born into this life instead of that one? It wasn’t fair.
She memorized it all: the haughty lilt in Princess’s voice, the angle of her pinkie as she drank from her sparkling champagne glass, the way she held her chin up, her shoulders back, her chest pushed out like she was claiming everything she had coming to her with her bosom alone.
Matilda studied it all, practicing in the cracked mirror over her broken dresser. More than anything else, she was determined to get there, to be that girl with everything, with happiness, stability and not a care in the world.
Matilda’s heart swelled with purpose and hope.
She needed a life like that.
One that belonged to the living, vibrant and free…
Someday, she thought again. She didn’t know how it would happen, but she’d figure it out, she promised herself.
The fancy house was important, of course. But she knew that love and family were the only two things that really mattered, because she’d never had that. The absence was a wound that she desperately wanted to fill, an empty well inside of her that she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Glancing through the crack in the door, she saw her mother fall into a drunken heap onto the floor of their bathroom, where she’d sleep for the rest of the night. Matilda grabbed a blanket and placed it over her, picking up the bottle that lay dripping beside her.
She stirred and with blurry, distant eyes, looked up and smiled.
“Thank you, Tillie,” she slurred, her breath sickly sweet.
“Goodnight, Mama,” she said, gifting her with a slight smile. She turned off the record player and went back to her room.
Back in bed, Matilda raised the volume on the television, losing herself in her dreams, forgetting the misery surrounding her for a few more hours until she drifted off to sleep, one day closer to her own fairy-tale beginning.
CHAPTER ONE
TILLI
E
My signature stared up at me like an accusation.
“Look what you’ve done,” it said. “Look who you’ve become…”
“It’s not my fault,” I said aloud, my voice swallowed up by the enormity of my solitude. I shook my head, insistently. “It’s not, dammit!”
I’m not sure who I was trying to convince. I knew in my heart I’d done nothing wrong. Somehow, I felt the need to keep reminding myself of that fact, though.
Tracing the two signatures with my fingertip, I bit my lip as the finality of it all began to hit me.
It was over.
Officially and legally dissolved.
The last twenty-five years of my life had disappeared like cotton candy on a warm tongue. If I wasn’t surrounded by concrete evidence, I could almost pretend nothing had ever actually happened.
Even if I no longer had a husband, at least I had something to show from the marriage: this house. This massive, cold, rambling cave of a home that I loved so dearly.
I also had a brand-new bank account, in my name only this time.
I don’t even know how much is in there.
That’s how rich I am now, I guess.
Rich in money.
Abysmally poor in love.
It’s not a bad trade-off, I guess. I mean, I’ve been this way for a long time. Long before a couple of signatures on a crisp, white piece of paper declared me officially divorced. These days it’s difficult to remember when I wasn’t suffering from a deficit of love.
There was a time, though — so long ago — in the beginning, of course, like it always is, when Reginald and I were in love. It was brief, in the grand scheme of things. To think of it now is like a distant dream, the kind where you wake up knowing you’re about to lose the memory of something important and you try to hold onto it, but it’s gone by the time you open your eyes.
That’s what it feels like now.
But back then?
It felt like a bomb.
A big, fat, happy love bomb.
Now, my relationship with Reggie is more like a deflated balloon.
Dead, empty and flat, like a limp dick.
What once left my heart elated and swollen with love now leaves me lost, lonely and depressed.
It’s too much. The sadness. The finality of it all.
The damned heaviness of it all.
I crumple up the packet of papers my lawyer delivered this afternoon and throw them in the raging fire I’d built earlier. The massive stone fireplace, in the main living room of my tomblike home, is the only thing providing any semblance of coziness to this place. The papers curl up at the edges, the flames eating away at the paper slowly, so slowly that I eventually start to feel the weight in my chest lift just a little.
I’d never been happy anyway, not really, not the way you’re supposed to be.
Sure, it was a lot of wasted years — too many — but now, I’m only as young as I’ll ever be again.
It’s time for me to grab life by the horns, as my hairdresser and only friend, Mario, had put it earlier today.
I’d gone to see him because it was the only place I ever really went. I hated shopping. I had no real friends, outside of him. I was not one of the ‘ladies that lunched’, despite my standing in the community from being married to one of the top film producers in Hollywood.
Mario was the only one in my life that seemed to have any concern for me. Maybe it’s because I left him a three-hundred dollar tip after every appointment, but it seemed genuine while I was there.
“Girl, you gotta get out of your bubble,” he’d told me this morning while styling my hair. I looked at him in the mirror and raised a brow.
“What would you suggest?” I said. “I’m old and I don’t know anyone fun.”
“First of all, you’re not old. You’re beautiful, Tillie! You know what? You should go to Vegas! Let your hair down a little, get drunk, get in touch with your wild side. It’s time for Tillie to get her groove back, baby!”
“By myself? I don’t have anyone to go with. And I’m not sure I ever really had my groove to begin with.”
“Oh, sure you did. And why not go alone?”
“I’d have to find someone to watch my cats. I don’t know…”
“I can housesit!” He offered. “But even if you stay here, it’s time you met some new people.”
“That’s easier said than done, Mario.”
“Not anymore, it isn’t,” he said, whipping his fuchsia covered phone out of his back pocket. “What do you like? Tall? Short? Stocky? Thin? Black? White? Ethnic?”
“Are you talking about people or boots?” I asked.
“People, Tillie!” he said, thrusting his phone in my face. I hated those things. Smart phones. They were more like phones that are so complicated, they make you feel stupid. I looked down and cringed when I saw a picture of a man’s hairy butt staring back up at me.
“Oops, sorry, that’s Grindr,” Mario shrugged, swiping the screen with his fingertip before showing me another picture. “Here we go. Look, this is the latest hookup app. It’s called DTF. All you have to do is make a profile, list off your interests, and bam! It hooks you up with people looking for someone just like you!”
“What’s DTF?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head.
“I seriously doubt anyone out there is looking for a sad, washed-up, divorcée.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Besides, you forgot one of your most attractive qualities.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re filthy rich, darling,” he said, rolling my long blonde hair into perfect beach waves, a style I’d never be able to accurately duplicate at home. “Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Yeah, for a fifty year-old.”
“You don’t look a day over forty, Tillie,” he said, with a genuine smile. I almost believed him. Even if I didn’t, it felt good to hear him say it. “Besides, cougars are still trendy.”
“I’m a cougar?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re a Samantha.”
“A what?”
“From Sex and the City. You’re the hot rich lady that doesn’t have to answer to anyone and can have whatever — and whomever — she wants.”
“You make it sound so simple,” I said, sighing.
“Trust me, girl,” he said, “in this day and age, it is. Embrace your inner cougar!”
“What about serial killers?” I asked. “I’ve seen those stories on SVU. A woman goes out with some guy she met online and she ends up in pieces in a recycling bin.”
“Look, as long as you’re safe, you’ll be fine,” he said.
“I bet that’s what all those dismembered women thought, too.”
He rolled his eyes. “Look, you have my cell. If you go to meet anyone, call me. Send me a link to their profile, tell me when and where you’re meeting them and let me know when you get back home. I’ll be your safety contact. I still think you should go to Vegas, though.”
“Vegas is so tacky,” I said.
“That’s what’s so great about it. And it’s only a few hours away. Plus, its a good place to get your feet wet. You can tackle the South of France next.”
I sighed as our conversation ran through my head. Plopping myself onto the leather sectional in front of the fireplace, I picked up my phone, as my two cats, Milo and Leo, snuggled up against my thighs.
Mario had taken the time to download the app for me before I’d left his salon and he’d even set up my account, snapping a picture of me with my new, perfectly highlighted, blonde beach waves as my profile picture.
I pulled up the app and was shocked to see the little red heart that told me I already had what Mario called a ‘poke’. A man’s profile popped up, along with a little message below it. I grabbed my reading glasses from the side table and slid them on my face before squinting to read the small text.
“MILF? GILF? Either way, let’s hook up. I like it rough.
Your place or mine?”
I stared at the phone in confusion. MILF? GILF? Rough?!
I had no idea what a MILF or a GILF was, but I had a feeling it wasn’t good. I clicked on his photo, enlarging it on my screen. I cringed and quickly clicked the little ‘x’ to make his very unattractive face disappear. I could go my entire life without seeing him again.
My phone vibrated and another red heart lit up.
This message was even worse.
“24 year-old male seeking mommy fantasy. I’ve been a very bad boy. I need a spanking. Hit me up. I can host.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said, throwing my phone across the sofa. This was not the way I wanted to meet anyone. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television and began flipping through the channels. I landed on the travel channel, watching as a woman on a journey through India ate some kind of disgusting unrecognizable cuisine she’d acquired from a street vendor.
I shook my head, wondering for the millionth time what the hell I was going to do with my life. I’d always dreamed of traveling, but Reggie was always too busy with work and frowned at the idea of me going without him. Now, the thought of taking off and exploring foreign lands all alone frankly frightened me. There were so many things I’d have done differently if I could go back now.
I’d spent the last twenty five years locked down to a man who didn’t want me. We’d fallen for each other hard and fast, after meeting at an audition six years after I’d arrived in Hollywood with stars in my eyes and forty dollars in my purse. I managed to get buy by waitressing and by the time I’d met Reggie, I’d been on hundreds of auditions and not landed even one part.
Reggie was fifteen years older than me and to a starry-eyed twenty five year-old, he was everything I’d dreamt of in a man — mature, rich, distinguished, worldly. He’d swept me off my feet with fancy dinner dates and sunset excursions on his yacht. We’d fallen in love under the big California sky, our future as bright as the sun that drenched the streets of Los Angeles.
To a poor girl from Tyler, Texas, the luxurious opulence of Reggie’s life was a seductive temptress. To the young, naive woman I’d been back then, his romantic proposal on the beach of Catalina Island was my ticket to eternal happiness.
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