“So that was twelve years ago, Oscar.  Twelve years.  Remind me what six plus twelve is again?”

He doesn’t answer.  She nods.  “That’s right.  You’re eighteen.  At least.”

Though vaguely unsettled, he remembers something Ren told him.  Something he believes completely.  “You’re a liar, Lita.  You lie all the time.  You don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs.  She drops her cigarette on the ground and grinds it beneath her heel.  There’s no warning when she grabs his shirt and rubs her body against his.    She has the same willowy build as Ren but there’s nothing soft about her.  She’s all hard edges and claws.  He fingernails scrape the back of his neck as she pulls his mouth in.  He tastes tobacco and something vaguely garlic as her tongue searches for his. Repulsed, he pushes her away.

“What the hell?” he snarls, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to purge the taste of her.

Evidently unruffled, Lita straightens her skirt and lights another cigarette.  “I might be lying,” she purrs.  “I might be searching for any reason to fuck that hot, hard body of yours, Oscar.”  She shrugs her bony shoulders.  “Or I might not be.  Either way, you’d better think twice before screwing any more slutty teenagers because that could get you in trouble.  Especially since I’m letting you know that you’ve got a better option.”

“You’re fucking sick,” he shouts at her back.  She’s already started walking away, strutting toward the big house as a handful of bats fly directly overhead.  She keeps walking, giving no hint that she heard him.

Once she’s out of sight the sordidness of the encounter catches up to Oscar and he sinks down on the brothel porch, feeling queasy.  Even though the stink of her awful perfume still hangs in the air he can’t quite believe what just happened.  It’s not the first time an older woman has taken a liking to him.  Hell, two schools ago he had a brief and dirty thing going on with the headmaster’s wife.  This was different though.  Even if Lita Savage wasn’t the mother of the girl he’s crazy about, he wouldn’t touch her if someone paid him.  She is lethal.

Oscar removes the rock from his pocket and all thoughts of Lita Savage fade away.  She’s either nuts or drunk and won’t likely bother him again.  As for all that nonsense about diving into his history, who cares?  So what if he’s eighteen and not seventeen?  He doesn’t care.  His mother obviously doesn’t care.  Anyway, there’s not much chance it’s actually true.  According to Ren, Lita can’t tell her ass from her elbow.

Ren.  Ren.  Loren.

He pictured her stripped down to her underwear, cozy beneath her bedcovers, a smile on her face as she drifts off to sleep.  She’s thinking of him, he knows it.  What she’ll never know is how it nearly killed him to keep his hands off her for the longest time.  It had to be the greatest testosterone restraint on record.  And even after that first incomparable kiss under the moonlight he’d forced himself to go slow because he knew that’s what she needed.  Tonight though, that sealed everything between them.  They did the deed and they said the words.  It makes no difference how old they are or how many Lita-type monkey wrenches are thrown in the way.

She’s his now.  She always will be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

REN

I was always a miserable performer.  Lita was forever scheduling screen tests during pilot season in Hollywood, that brief period when all the new shows are looking for their casts and would-be actors from across the nation camp out in seedy Boulevard motels hoping to catch a break.   I never got any callbacks.

“Loren does not project.”

“Loren is uniformly expressionless.” 

“Loren fails to occupy space with confidence.” 

It didn’t take long for Lita to give up on me.  Monty and Spencer wanted nothing to do with any of it, but Brigitte and Ava were willing so I guiltily thanked the greater powers for giving me some sisters my mother could exploit.

Speaking of sisters, Brigitte’s been avoiding me ever since I cough cough ‘assaulted’ her in the kitchen.  I can only guess what kind of sobbing show she’s putting on for her private Blue Room interviews.  I’m not going to ask.  If I want to know I’ll find out when the show airs, just like everyone else.

As far as Ava goes, she knows I’m rattled.  She always waits until the crew is gone for the night before pulling me aside and asking if I ‘want to talk about i..

I do not.

I do not want to talk about Oscar.  No, not Oscar, Oz.

I do not want to talk about the contemptuous look in his eyes or the crass things that came out of his mouth or the way I had to bite the inside of my cheek to try to stop the trembling that threatened to devour me.

I do not want to talk about how every sexually deprived nerve ending in my body begged to be handled by him right there on the dirty floor of the barn.

I do not want to talk about how maybe if I fucked Oz – the man who was once Oscar - in the filthiest way possible I could get rid of it all.   Maybe all it would take is ten minutes of animal humping to silence five years worth of grief for what we had, for what we lost.  It must have killed some part of him too.  I saw it in his face the night he walked away.  Once I proved myself to be a coward I was nothing to him.

“Ren?”

A hesitant knock on the door, a soft voice.  Ava.

“Ren?”

“Ren’s not here,” I mumble and pull the pillow over my face.  I don’t know what time it is.  The sun is fairly high and the room grows hotter every minute.  I’m sure I could find something more useful to do than lie in a bed of self-pity.

But I’ve made my own bed.  Now I should be forced to lie in it. 

I cackle to myself over the metaphorical non-humor of the situation.  I think I’m losing my marbles, one marble at a time.  By this time next month they will have all leaked out.

“Can I come in?”

I fling the covers off and unlock the door.  Ava cracks it open slowly and pokes her head inside.  She looks around with worried confusion, like she’s crossed an unfriendly international border.   She needs to do something about her roots.  I can see the red peeking through.

“Hi,” I wave.

“Hey.”

She smiles.  Ava has the most amazing smile.  When Ava smiles you feel like the sun has just shined directly on you.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly ten.”

“Shit.  I forgot I told Spencer I’d help him with some chores.  On second thought though, I’d probably just get in his way.”

Ava chews her lip.  “I saw Oz heading out with Spence pretty early.”

“Oh.  Oz.”  Defeat.  Anger.  Lust.

“Anyway,” Ava continues as if an elephant hasn’t just entered the room and stands there, swaying his bulbous trunk and blinking at us.  “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind watching Alden for a few hours.  Bree asked if I would go with her to the Western Edge Stables.  Apparently she’s signed us up for a roping class.”

“A groping class?”

“Shush, you heard me.   The photo crew was here early in this morning. Even if Monty wasn’t doing that ridiculous photo shoot today I couldn’t ask him and I’d rather not drag the baby out when there’s nothing for him to do there.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jesus, a girl can’t even sleep in for a few hours without all kinds of crazy news erupting.  “Ava, you know I’ll gladly look after Alden anytime so don’t even worry about it.  Now who is here?  And Monty is doing what exactly?”

“I told you yesterday.  Photographer from one of those celebrity rags is in town and got Monty to agree to some barely clothed on-location photo ops.   They headed for the mountain trail a few hours ago.  She wanted Spence too but of course he told her to fuck off.”

“And Monty didn’t?  Monty tells everyone to fuck off.”