Countdown to Killing Kurtis Read online

  Countdown to Killing Kurtis Copyright 2015 by Lauren Rowe

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review

  Chapter 1

  Hollywood, California, 1992

  20 Years Old

  1 Day Before Killing Kurtis

  My head bangs against the wall as Kurtis has his way with me, groaning and grunting all the while. I can sense he’s reaching his limit and can’t hold out much longer.

  “Baby,” he moans, his voice straining.

  I turn my face into his ear and exhale sharply, making sure my breathing seems ragged and desperate, as if, despite my best efforts at maintaining my composure, I just can’t control myself. Of course, my dear husband, only you bring out the wide-eyed little girl in me, the girl who believes in happily ever afters and soul mates. I roll my eyes, even as my skull bangs against the wall with a loud thud.

  The vast majority of the time, something as simple as panting in Kurtis’ ear does the trick and sends him over the edge. But not this time.

  Bang, bang, bang. My head continues its assault on the wall of our hotel room.

  “Oh, Kurtis,” I blurt loudly, taking great care to infuse my voice with breathless excitement. And then, because Kurtis absolutely loves it when I talk Texas, I bring my lips right to his ear, blow out a puff of warm air, and whisper, in my most exaggerated twang, “Goodness gracious, sugar.”

  That ought to do the trick.

  I wait.

  He’s moaning and grunting like a hog in slop, but undeniably hanging on. Well, hells bells. Looks like I’m gonna have to work a little harder than usual to lead my blind pig of a husband to an acorn tonight. I make a noise like my insides are being split in two by pleasure so intense, it hurts—and then, just because I like wearing belts and suspenders, I bite his earlobe, too. Hard.

  Yep, that does it. Hallelujah. Kurtis lets out a mangled cry of release and relief, and I respond with my trademark I’m-just-so-in-love-with-you sigh. Just for the heck of it, since this is my final performance, after all, and I’m a big believer in “leaving it all out there,” I follow all of it up with a little shimmy—something I’ve only recently learned I’m supposed to do at times such as this—and then I arch my back with apparent pleasure like I’m finally, deliciously scratching a hard-to-reach itch.

  I smirk. I should have been an actress. Oh wait—I am an actress. And a damn good one, too—destined to be seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world.

  Kurtis becomes still. His body goes slack. Beads of sweat cover his brow, his chest, his cheeks. If I didn’t hate my husband so much, I might actually think he’s handsome—quite handsome, indeed.

  I smile dreamily at my dear husband, thinking about tomorrow—when he’ll finally be dead.

  “You’re amazing, baby,” Kurtis says, grinning like a possum with a sweet potato.

  “Oh, Kurtis,” I squeal. In a sudden and unexpected fit of genuine glee, I throw my head back and laugh with abandon. Tomorrow is finally Killing Kurtis Day, and I’m bursting at the seams about it.

  Kurtis kisses my nose. “I love you, baby.”

  “I love you, too, Kurtis,” I reply. And it’s true. I do love Kurtis—that is, if you define love as that hard-to-pin-down sensation of anticipation and longing you get as you count down the days, then hours, and then minutes until your loved one is cold and dead as he so richly deserves to be. What a thrill—a turn-on, even, if I’m being honest—to be so very close now, so very, very close, after waiting a tortuous year minus one day for his well-deserved fate to come. Being on the eve of his one-way departure from planet earth, I feel somewhat hot and bothered, actually. Hey now, being so close to Happy Killing Kurtis Day is getting me hotter than a stolen tamale. I suddenly and enthusiastically kiss my husband’s mouth, and he plunges his tongue into mine in reply.

  “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, his brawny body instantly responding to my surprising invitation. “Again?”

  “Again,” I mutter.

  Might as well send the fucker off with a smile on his stupid, lying face.

  Chapter 2

  Kermit, Texas, 1982

  10 Years Old

  3,552 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “You’re so pretty, Buttercup,” Daddy says to me, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “You could sit on a fence and the birds would feed you.” Not a single day has gone by in my entire ten-year-old life that Daddy hasn’t said these words, or some variation of them, to me. He’s sitting on the edge of my cot, tucking me in for the night. Momma’s already passed out on her mattress down the hall, stinking of whiskey, as usual. “You’re the prettiest little girl in the whole wide world,” Daddy coos, emphasizing each word with a fingertip pressed to my forehead. “Never, ever settle for anything but the very best in this life, Buttercup. If someone would’ve given me that advice when I was ten, maybe my life would’ve turned out a whole lot differently.”

  Does that mean he regrets having me, I wonder?

  Daddy must see the look of worry in my eyes because he touches my cheek tenderly and says, “But I wouldn’t change a goddamned thing, Buttercup, ’cause the Lord gave me you. And you’re all I ever need to be happier than a tornado in a trailer park.”

  I smile broadly.

  “You deserve nothing but the best.”

  Whenever Daddy makes the “Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s Gonna Be Somebody” speech, which is often, I know it’s my cue to fist-pump the air as a sign of unwavering solidarity and shared vision—and I never miss my cue.

  “Nothing but the best for Charlie Wilber’s Daughter,” I declare.

  Yes, if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times from Daddy: “Just ’cause Charlie Wilber got stuck living in a trailer with a drunk, soul-sucking, good-for-nothing wife who doesn’t have an ounce of class, doesn’t mean Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s gonna follow him to hell. No sir, Charlie Wilber’s Daughter’s gonna get herself educated and be somebody.”

  Daddy used to have big plans for himself, not just for his daughter—specifically, Daddy used to dream of becoming a world-famous mini-golf-course designer. But, sadly, things just didn’t work out as planned, thanks to the limitless supply of dumbasses in the world. “I used every penny of my inheritance from dear old Uncle Ray, may he rest in peace, to buy a premium piece of land right along Route 291—you know, that long stretch in the desert?—and I was gonna build the best mini-golf experience the world has ever seen.” But thanks to the Napoleon-types at the Department of Planning who were every one of ’em as dumb as a bag of hammers and just itching to lord over someone, Daddy’s mini-golf course designs got bogged down in red tape until he finally had to face the hard truth that he wasn’t ever gonna get out of Kermit, Texas—population eight hundred forty-three.

  Whenever I look sad about how Daddy’s life maybe hasn’t turned out the way he always dreamed about, he quickly reassures me it’s all in God’s plan. “If a trip around the world cost a dollar, I couldn’
t get to the Oklahoma line,” he always says. “But that’s okay, Buttercup, because my biggest invention in this life is just gonna have to be you.”

  Right at this part of Daddy’s story, I usually suggest that maybe it’s not too late for Daddy’s dreams to still come true? “No, Buttercup,” Daddy always replies, “when I nailed the hottest chick in Winkler County at age seventeen, right behind the eighteenth hole at Walt’s Mini-Golf, I found out the trajectory of a man’s entire life can change with one little ejaculation.” Daddy always laughs at that punch line and I join him, even though I don’t know what a trajectory is. Or an ejaculation, for that matter.

  When Daddy first heard about sixteen-year-old Momma’s unexpected bun in the oven, he rejoiced, believe it or not, because he instantly realized that the tadpole inside Momma’s belly was gonna deliver him his first-ever chance at happiness—an actual family he could love and call his own and shower with expensive gifts like gold-plated watches and modems and jetpack-backpacks that make you fly through the air like an astronaut. “I figured, heck, as long as I’m gettin’ started having kids so young, I might as well have twelve and create my own army for when we get nuked by the Russians.” Daddy always laughs when he says that last part about us getting nuked by the Russians, and I laugh, too, even though, honestly, it makes me feel as scared as a cat left behind at the dog pound.

  Tonight’s bedtime routine is no different than every other night. After Daddy tells me how pretty I am and reminds me how the dumbasses of the world have thwarted him at every turn, he asks me about my day, just like he always does.

  “Well,” I reply, “you know that scruffy little dog that lives with Mrs. Miller and her dopey little grandson in the trailer with the rusty screen door? Well, that crazy dog got out and was runnin’ around like a squirrel in a forest fire so I gave him some water on account of it being hotter than a fur coat in Marfa today and played with him for a while.” I sigh at the warm memory—I sure do love puppies and kitties and everything furry. “But after a while,” I continue, “I heard Mrs. Miller’s dopey grandson calling to him from their trailer, so I brought the little guy to him—and, gosh, that boy sure was grateful to get his dog back.” I blush, remembering how that little boy looked at me like I was pretty as a picture. “And, Daddy, that boy said I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in his whole dang life.”

  “Well, of course, he did,” Daddy says. “There ain’t nobody prettier than you, Buttercup.”

  I let out a long sigh. I know I should be happy to have made that dopey boy’s day by bringing his dog back to him (and, even more so, by being so dang pretty), but all I can think about is how I’ve always wanted a little puppy or kitty of my own so I won’t feel so dang lonely around here all the time. But we can’t have any kind of pet on account of Momma’s allergies.

  Speak of the devil, Momma shuffles into the nearby kitchenette. She’s still wearing her waitress uniform from earlier and her hair looks like it’s been through a flood in a Fizzies factory.

  Momma stares at Daddy and me for a minute, leaning against the counter and not saying a word, and we stare right back. Finally, Momma yawns so big I can see clear to the inside of her panties, grabs her whiskey bottle off the counter, and pours herself a tall one. When her glass is full and almost overflowing, she grunts like a mad monkey and shuffles back to the bedroom with her drink.

  When Momma’s out of sight, Daddy and I bust a gut laughing.

  “Damn,” Daddy says through his laughter, “she looks like she fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

  I bring my hands up to my mouth to stifle my laughter, but it’s no use. Daddy’s just too funny.

  “And drunk as a fiddler’s bitch to boot,” Daddy adds, still laughing, and I nod like a bobblehead doll. “Your momma sure has changed since I nailed her ten years ago behind hole eighteen. Back then, she was like a pearl in a fur cushion.”

  “Poor Daddy,” I say. “Momma sure did pull the old switcheroo on you.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “It sure is.”

  “And, holy hell, can that woman complain,” Daddy says.

  “That woman would complain if Jesus Christ himself came down and handed her a five-dollar bill.”

  Daddy throws his head back and guffaws. “Yes, indeed, I reckon she would.”

  I beam at him. Making Daddy bust a gut from laughing is my favorite thing.

  When Daddy finally gathers his senses and wipes the laughing-tears from his eyes, he gazes at me like I’m a snow cone on a summer day. I know he’s thinking “we’re just two peas in a pod,” and it makes my heart sing a happy tune.

  “So, what’d you read for your education today?” Daddy asks.

  Since Daddy has taken it upon himself to homeschool me, I usually tear through an entire book in a day. Even though Daddy’s hardly ever around during the day to look after my education, he always makes sure to check on my progress every night at bedtime (which is more than I can say about Momma).

  “Today’s book was In Cold Blood,” I answer.

  Daddy’s face perks up. “Ah, Truman Capote. That’s a good one, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you know that book single-handedly created the entire ‘true-crime’ genre?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, if you like that one,” Daddy says, “then let’s have you read Helter Skelter next.”

  I nod enthusiastically, though I’ve never heard of that book. I like the title, though—it sounds kinda like “higgledy-piggledy.”

  “I want you to walk on down to the library tomorrow and get it,” Daddy says.

  “I will, Daddy.”

  “You’ve always gotta keep educating yourself, Buttercup.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s up to you to maximize that big ol’ brain of yours—to fill it with big thinking instead of standardized, small-minded crap.”

  I nod again and scrunch up my face to show him just how carefully I’m listening to what he’s telling me. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “That’s why I’m homeschooling you. Because the schools are all about telling you what you can and can’t do and brainwashing you to think like everyone else. But you and me, we’re not like everyone else. How do you think I’ve learned anything of any value whatsoever?”

  “You taught yourself.”

  “Damn straight I did. I’ve never needed some small-minded teacher stuck in a classroom to tell me how to do something. If a teacher could invent a teleportation configuration system or design the world’s greatest mini-golf course, don’t you think that’s exactly what he’d be doing, and not sitting around in a classroom handing out multiple-choice tests?”

  I nod and say, “Pfft” so Daddy knows I’m nothing like any ol’ small-minded teacher sitting in a classroom handing out multiple-choice tests.

  “You can do anything you set your mind to, anything at all.”

  “I sure can, Daddy.”

  “Never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do.”

  “I won’t, Daddy.”

  There’s a groan from the back room. “Charlie!” Momma groans. “Bring me the bottle.” Daddy rolls his eyes at me, and I roll mine back at him. Momma is our mutual cross to bear. When Daddy gets up to tend to Momma, I roll over onto my side with a huge smile on my face. I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have such a handsome and smart daddy who loves me so dang much.

  Chapter 3

  18 Years, 6 Days Old

  735 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  The secretary in the front room of Kurtis Jackman’s office is old as dirt and sounds like she smokes two packs a day. The woman doesn’t look the least bit impressed when I say, sweet as pie, “I’m here to see Mr. Kurtis Jackman.” But when I add, “Johnny from the club sent me,” she immediately replies, “Mr. Jackman will see you in a few minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing right in front of the man himself in his cluttered
office. He’s seated behind a big, mahogany desk, talking on the telephone, looking out a large window. He’s about twice my age, probably just about Daddy’s age, but taller and brawnier than Daddy ever was, and he’s dressed in a slick black suit with a purple tie that probably cost him a pretty penny.

  Kurtis’ face is actually handsome, to tell you the truth—with a strong jawline and piercing dark eyes—but the minute I look at him and notice the way he’s fidgeting and bellowing into the phone, almost like he’s pretending to be big and important, I instantly know that, deep down inside, Mr. Kurtis Jackman doesn’t think he’s big and important or handsome at all. In fact, I’d even go so far as to bet the farm that, way down underneath that fancy black suit and purple tie, Mr. Kurtis Jackman believes he’s small and nobody and ugly as homemade sin.

  Kurtis’ entire office is bursting from floor to ceiling with videotapes and Casanova Magazines, framed movie posters featuring big-busted women, and photographs of himself with what I reckon are famous and important people, though I don’t recognize a single one of them. The décor of his office, like the appearance of the man himself, all but screams, “Please like me!” Just looking around at everything, there’s no doubt Kurtis is a man desperate for the pretty people to like him. Well, thank God I’m so damned pretty.

  I decide to ready myself for the moment when Kurtis’ eyes are gonna feast on me for the very first time. With an arch of my eyebrow and a purse of my lips, I contort my facial expression into one of extreme boredom. I even go so far as to sigh in frustration, like “When the hell is this damned yahoo gonna get off the phone and stop wasting my precious time?”

  Of course, just two minutes ago, before I’d laid eyes on Mr. Kurtis Jackman, I would have bet dollars to doughnuts my best strategy would have been to adopt a demeanor of extreme humility. But one look at Kurtis and how he’s strutting just sitting down, and I know faster than a bell clapper in a goose’s ass that humility isn’t my best strategy here.