On Heartbreak Ridge: Movie Trilogy Prequel Novella (The Movie)

by Kimberly Adams

  On Heartbreak Ridge

  Kimberly Adams

  Text Copyright © 2014 Kimberly Adams

  All Rights Reserved

  Formerly published as Kimberly Stedronsky

  Editing by Adams Romance

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Model Courtney Boyett

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Electronic Edition: July 2014

  First Paperback Edition: July 2014

  On Heartbreak Ridge is a satire by Kimberly Adams, and is not intended maliciously. Kimberly Adams has invented all names and situations in her stories, except in cases when public figures are being satirized. Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental, or used as a fictional depiction or personality parody.

  To What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

  Now Playing

  THE ENTERTAINER

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  INHERIT THE WIND

  STOLEN KISSES

  SUNSET BOULEVARD

  THE MARRYING KIND

  ARMAGEDDON

  COMING HOME

  HEARTBREAK RIDGE

  WHERE THE HEART IS

  HER

  The Entertainer

  K

  “Sit up, Keaton.”

  I adjusted, kneeling ramrod straight in the pew. Mom gave me an appraising glance before turning back to the front of the church.

  There was nothing worse than sitting in an un-air-conditioned church on a sweltering August Sunday.

  Unless, of course, it was your thirteenth birthday.

  “Hear our prayers,” the people murmured. I scooted against the back of the pew, shirking away from the little girl sitting next to me. Mrs. Hale, my retired Sunday school teacher, had plopped her fidgety granddaughter between us.

  The kid’s constant chatter was pissing me off. She was dressed in a Snow White costume, wearing layers of red velvet that made me sweat just looking at her.

  Luke sat on my other side, kicking the kneeler incessantly with his grubby tennis shoes, and I felt like I was in a freaking daycare.

  “Peace be with you,” Father Harris began.

  I cringed, knowing it was almost time to shake everyone’s hands. I hated that part of church. Sticky palms grossed me out.

  I turned to Luke. He was just as aggravated with having to hug me and Robin as I was. I shook Grandpa’s hand behind me, and then awkwardly turned toward the little girl.

  Her long, dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and flyaway strands stuck to her damp neck.

  “Peace be with you, kind prince,” she whispered reverently, holding her small hand out toward mine. Her fingernails were covered in colorful marker, and I arched one eyebrow.

  “I’m not a prince,” I spat, a little more argumentatively than I’d intended.

  Her humongous blue eyes widened, and she flushed.

  And then those eyes narrowed, her hip cocked to the side, and her lips pouted my way. “You’re supposed to kiss my hand,” she hissed. “Where are your manners?”

  Rolling my eyes at the little weirdo, I glanced up at Mrs. Hale. The old woman actually glared at me!

  Growling under my breath, I finally took the kid’s hand, drawing it to my lips for a quick, embarrassing kiss.

  “Alright, fine. There. Peace be with you, Snow White.”

  “Peace be with you, Keaton,” Mrs. Hale echoed from over the little girl’s head, an appreciative smile playing on her lips. I hoped that she’d at least make some kind of comment to my dad about how nice I was to her crazy granddaughter.

  As though it would help.

  I zoned through most of the homily that my dad gave. Apparently, he was boring the hell out of Snow White, too, because her head started to bob.

  I stiffened. She dropped to my side with her face resting against my upper arm.

  As though I wasn’t sweating enough.

  I flashed an expectant look at Mrs. Hale, but she was too deeply involved in my dad’s droning words to see that her granddaughter was sleeping against my shoulder.

  “Faith is belief,” my dad began, his deep voice rumbling down the aisles of the Holy Family Church. “Belief is easier to explain. Belief is a faster sell. When I give my son a penny at the old well behind the dam, he makes a wish. Keaton, what do you wish for, son?”

  I clenched my jaw. I hated when Dad would call me out in the middle of the packed congregation. Every face turned my way, and the women’s adoring grins were coupled with the men’s raised eyebrows. Mrs. Hale finally saw Snow White drooling on my dress shirt, pulling the kid away from me.

  I tried not to squirm.

  My shoes were pinching my feet, and Luke was picking his nose. Robin nudged him, glaring and forcing a tissue into his hand.

  “Money,” I finally called, my sweaty fists crinkling the missal in my hands.

  I saw the fleeting look of disappointment in his eyes, and he forced a smile to his face as the congregation chuckled.

  “Money. What else?”

  Fuck me. Luke giggled, and I sneered at him. Grandpa’s hand settled on my shoulder from behind, and the residue of embarrassment stained my cheeks.

  “I wish there was no such thing as alcohol.”

  Grandpa squeezed my shoulder, and my mother’s sharp inhale told me I’d given the wrong answer.

  I locked eyes with my father.

  He smiled quickly.

  Too quickly.

  “And you believe that the simple act of throwing a penny into an old well will make your wishes come true?”

  I shrugged, refusing to say another word. I knew that I’d have to pay for my second answer, and I wasn’t about to chance an ass-whooping for another honest reply.

  “Faith is belief,” Pastor Thorne repeated, his resolute voice drawing all eyes back to him. “Call it a penny in a well, or a lucky rabbit’s foot, or even a shooting star. Put your faith in wishes, and those wishes feel possible. Put your faith in God, and through God all things are possible.”

  I focused on my shoes, refusing to lift my eyes back to my dad’s again.

  Snow White began talking to herself, reciting lines about dwarves and her evil stepmother.

  For some ridiculous reason, listening to her was calming me down.

  I sat in the humid church long after everyone had filed out into the warm, summer sunshine.

  The collar of my dress shirt was sticking to my neck, and my Dockers were damp beneath my thighs. The ceiling fans tilted and whirled over my head, slicing at the rainbow sunlight that poured through the stained glass window.

  “Keat,” Robin whispered from behind me. “Come on, we’re going home.”

  “No.” I began ripping at the missal, and she narrowed her eyes.

  “Stop it. He’s going to be so mad,” she warned.

  “He’s already mad. I might as well earn it.”

  “By tearing up that book? That’s stupid.” My eleven-year-old sister narrowed her eyes, gripping my elbow. “Come on.”

  “No,” I argued, wrenching away. “You go.”

  She huffed, stomping out of the church in her too-big heels. I knew they were my mother’s shoes, and had seen Robin wadding tissues and shoving them in the toes on our way to the church.

  I sat and stared at the altar, not praying, not thinking.

  And definitely not fucking wishing.

/>   After the hum of people faded into silence from outside the church, the hinges creaked to tell me someone had come back in.

  “Keaton. Come on now,” Grandpa’s voice urged. I heard him wrestle with the tobacco in his mouth, and watched him tuck his hands in his pockets from the corner of my eye. “I need to go to Bales and get some two-bah-fours. Need your help. Let’s go now.”

  I sighed, not minding him reaching to drop his arm over my sweaty shoulders as I stood.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Already left. Your mum took Robin and Luke home.” He held the door open for me, and I shuffled to his old Chevy pickup. “Son?”

  I shifted into the hot pickup cab, turning to look at my grandfather.

  “Huh?”

  “Happy birthday,” he said, handing me over an envelope.

  I stared at his hand. “What’s this?”

  “Your present. Open it.”

  I was thirteen, so I expected at least thirteen dollars. Maybe fourteen, with the whole “one to grow on” thing that Grandpa was so fond of.

  Instead, I widened my eyes at the stack of one dollar bills.

  “You don’t need to count ‘em. There’s enough for where we’re going.”

  “The lumber store?”

  “Eh,” he scowled, shifting into drive. “I don’t need any two-bah-fours. Couldn’t say titty bar in God’s house.”

  “You’re taking me to the titty bar?” I asked, and he broke into the shitty grin that I loved so much.

  “Damn right. You’re a teenager now. Bout time you saw some of the world.”

  “It’s Sunday. What kind of titty bar is open on Sunday?” I asked, widening my eyes at the stack of bills.

  “The kind that takes that cash.”

  We drove for more than forty-five minutes, pulling off Route 22. There were two other cars parked outside the long, windowless building, and Grandpa drove around to the back.

  “They’re going to let me in?”

  “You ain’t drinkin’. Just here for the show.”

  I was nervous. There was no denying that I wanted to see some boobs, but I had no idea how to behave. Could I touch them? Was it okay to get a boner? I knew that was going to happen.

  “They ain’t all pretty,” he warned. I almost laughed at the chime activated by the opening of the door.

  Grandpa wasn’t kidding. They weren’t all pretty. In fact, some were too skinny, dirty-looking, and their tits were saggy. I kept glancing nervously at Grandpa while he talked to the bartender, unsure if I could look directly at the stage.

  “Go on, Keat. Here.” He handed me a glass, and I sniffed it before taking a sip.

  The biting taste of alcohol burned my throat, and I choked, coughing it down as much as I could without creating a scene.

  “Water,” Grandpa offered, and I chased the sting away with a huge gulp.

  “That’s gross,” I protested, settling next to him at a dark table.

  “Won’t always be.”

  “You can have it,” I offered, and Grandpa shook his head.

  “Nah. I gave it up long ago. Haven’t touched it since.”

  “Why?”

  His expression darkened. “Someday, you’re gonna be tempted to let the drink rule your life, like your daddy does. Like your mama does, too. It’s in your blood, and you can’t escape blood, son.”

  “I hate him,” I whispered, through clenched teeth.

  He leaned forward, and I tried to keep my eyes on Grandpa’s even as a woman clacked her heels over to the stage in front of us. “You remember my words, right here, right now. The day the drink becomes more important to you than a woman, or your own kid, is the day you stop. Ya hear me?”

  I nodded quickly, confused.

  “Good boy.” He sat back, nodding toward the dancer in front of us. “Now get your envelope out. I’ll show you were to put the money.”

  . . .

  That night, Mom went to bed with a bottle of wine around eight. Robin got Luke bathed and was reading him Chicken Little when I stuck my head in Luke’s room. “Dad home?”

  “Not yet,” Robin whispered, checking to see that Luke was asleep before tucking the blankets around him. “You should stay in bed, Keaton. He said he’d ‘deal with you when he got home’… before he went to the bar.”

  “Grandpa’s here,” I countered, though I knew he was already snoring in his apartment off the garage.

  “You know that doesn’t matter.”

  I clenched my fists, turning to stalk to my bedroom. Robin rushed to catch up with me, carrying a neatly wrapped package in her hand. “Wait- Luke and I got you a birthday present.”

  I took the gift, grinning. “Thanks.”

  “I saved up. Grandpa helped.”

  Tearing at the paper, I lowered to my bed.

  The video camera was small; a Sony that I knew was sold at Walmart. I turned over the plastic packaging, reading the specifications.

  “I know it’s not, you know, a real director’s camera. But you can practice with it. You can be better than Clint Eastwood.”

  I stood up and hugged my sister. She stiffened, surprised, and I only tightened my hold.

  “Thank you, Robin.”

  Tears burned behind my eyes, and I let go and turned to face my Dirty Harry poster on my bedroom wall.

  “Sure. Happy birthday, Keat.”

  She could tell that I was emotional, I knew. She turned, and my bedroom door closed with a soft snap.

  When I heard Dad’s car pull into the driveway, I gripped my pillow, waiting.

  He came into the house, stumbled through the kitchen under my bedroom, and then shuffled his way up the stairs.

  He stopped just outside my bedroom door.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, feeling like a coward. My heart raced, and I held my breath, praying he’d keep walking.

  Wishing.

  Finally, after what seemed like the longest minutes of my life, his voice sounded softly through the door.

  “Happy birthday, Keaton.”

  He continued down the hallway toward his bedroom.

  I turned on my side, the emotions I’d been holding back for hours charging through me with a mixture of relief and fear. Two angry tears pooled in the corners of my eyes.

  Why was I grateful that I was spared a turn with the belt for my birthday? Why was that my gift from him?

  I hated and loved him.

  Reaching for my new camera, I pulled it against my chest, closing my eyes.

  Great Expectations

  V

  “You were amazing, sweetheart!”

  My parents both reached for me at the same time, and I smiled, accepting their hugs.

  “Mom, I’m going to get make-up all over you-”

  “Don’t worry about that. Greg,” Catherine said, gesturing to the bouquet of pink roses in my dad’s hand. He grinned, presenting them to me.

  “You’re so talented, honey,” Dad assured me, and I grinned, beaming at Mrs. Applebee as she snapped pictures of us in front of the high school stage.

  “Viv! Come on, we’re going to the after party! You coming?” Theresa called, waving to my parents.

  I glanced up at my mom and dad, watching them exchange a look.

  “Listen,” I began. “I won’t drink, do drugs, have sex, or listen to that devil’s music they call rock n’ roll,” I promised them, and my mom smiled.

  “We trust you. Go, behave, and if Theresa drinks, call us, any hour, and we’ll come get you.”

  “No texting and driving,” my dad added.

  “Thank you!” I hugged them again before rushing over to my cast members. We’d just finished our second to last performance of Grease, and my blonde Sandy-wig was getting itchy. “Theresa, I’m coming!”

  The after party was at Trevor Beech’s house. He played Danny, the lead, and was a senior.

  And his parents were loaded.

  His address was off the main road, set against the woods, and the cabin was more like a m
ansion. Brilliantly lit in the darkness, the driveway was already filled with cars.

  “You know Trevor likes you, Viv. You’re a sophomore. Sophomores rarely get leads.”

  “Are you trying to say that I got my part because Trevor likes me, and not because I’m immensely talented?” I demanded.

  Theresa flashed me a “no shit” look, and then broke into laughter. “Dude, you know you’re talented. Stop dropping your big words on me. ‘Immensely.’ Pah-lease.”

  I laughed, following her down the driveway to the main house. Trevor greeted us at the door, and his blonde-haired-blue-eyed playboy face refused to turn away from mine.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Vivian. We can’t have an after party without the star of the show.”

  I reached for my ponytail, twisting my hair nervously and replying with a grin.

  Trevor was so cute.

  I liked him. A lot.

  I was sixteen years old; it was about time I felt something for someone.

  He was such good kisser.

  Actually, he was the only boy I’d ever kissed. We had the beginning scenes of Grease at the beach, where we were kissing during our summer montage. We had the scene with the make-out session at the drive-in, and then of course our long kiss at the end during “You’re the One That I Want.”

  My lips were still deliciously sore from that one.

  “Viv!” Theresa snapped her fingers in my face, and Trevor chuckled, running his hand through his thick mane of hair.

  “Earth to Vivian,” he teased. I blushed, and he drew his finger along my collar bone. “I like when you get all red and rashy like that.”

  “It’s so embarrassing,” I protested, blushing again.

  Blush. Blushety blush blush blush.

  Fidgety fingers, twisting my toes, twirling my hair.

  He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sky-blue eyes drinking me in from head to toe.

  “It’s a little quieter downstairs. I was gonna head down, if you want to come with me,” Trevor offered.

  “Yeah,” I answered, a little too enthusiastically.

  “One sec,” Theresa promised, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me toward the bathroom.

  Once the door was closed, we both held hands, melting into a squealing- hopping- giggling pile of excitement. “Viv! He wants to make out with you!”