Thrill

  Aunt Lucy, a dour widow woman with a long, miserable face, owned a small motel, which she ran with the help of her son. Aunt Lucy was not at all affectionate and certainly not pleased to be stuck with Lara Ann. She greeted the child with a curt nod, showed her to the tiny storeroom in back, where she was to sleep, and the next morning packed her off to the local school.

  Lara Ann was utterly traumatized. Nobody mentioned the tragedy to her. Nobody spoke to her about the loss of her family. It was like they’d ceased to exist, and not one person cared to address it.

  Aunt Lucy certainly didn’t mention it. Neither did Mac. Although one day his best friend said to her, “Are you batty? Mac says you are, ’cause your daddy killed your mom. So you gotta be a loony, too.”

  Lara Ann was frightened and confused. She couldn’t understand what had happened, only that her life was in shatters.

  She soon realized that Aunt Lucy didn’t want her, and even though she was very young, she also sensed that she didn’t fit in at the motel. She withdrew into silence—the only safe place—speaking only when spoken to. At school she kept to herself, desperately trying to fade into the background. Unfortunately, as she grew, it was not possible to stay unnoticed, for she was incredibly pretty. By the time she was thirteen, boys were chasing her, even though she gave them no encouragement.

  After school and all during summer vacations she helped out at the motel, doing the work of a maid—cleaning rooms, scrubbing floors, folding laundry. Mac’s best friend worked as a handyman at the motel. He had his eye on her, and even though she was only thirteen and kept to herself, she knew he was watching her.

  One day he trapped her in the laundry room, pinned her up against the wall and tried to kiss and grope her. He wanted to do more, but when she started to scream, he got nervous and ran.

  Aunt Lucy appeared at the door of the laundry room, her long face livid. “Why are you encouraging him?” she yelled. “What are you? A tramp like your mother?”

  “My mama wasn’t a tramp,” Lara Ann whispered.

  Aunt Lucy didn’t listen. Stern faced, she proceeded to give her a lecture about how lucky she was that they’d taken her in, even though they could ill afford to and she was a terrible burden.

  A burden? She was doing a full-time job for no wages. Fervently she vowed that one of these days she’d get away from Aunt Lucy and never speak to her again, because she was a hateful woman.

  Sometimes Lara Ann felt like Cinderella. She had no friends, nobody to love and cherish her, nobody who cared. Many nights she’d sob herself to sleep in her little room. School was not much better. She was too pretty to fit in, and they all let her know it. The other girls hated her, and the boys wanted to jump her. Her only solace was reading, and she haunted the school library, getting hold of every book she could. Reading took her to another place—another life. It proved to her that things could be better.

  When she was fifteen, a tenant shot himself in one of the rooms. Lara Ann discovered the body when she went in to clean. She became hysterical.

  Aunt Lucy slapped her across the face and told her to shut up and pull herself together while she called the police.

  Two hours later the police arrived, took photographs, hauled the body away, and when the task was completed, Aunt Lucy told her to go in and clean up the mess.

  “No!” Lara Ann shrieked, horrified. “I can’t go in there. I can’t!”

  “Pretty little miss doesn’t want to get blood on her hands?” Aunt Lucy sneered. “You get in there and do as I say.”

  That was the day Lara Ann knew she couldn’t take it anymore. Unfortunately, she had no choice—there was nowhere for her to run.

  And then one Friday afternoon a man called Morgan Creedo checked into the motel. Morgan was a half-assed country singer, twenty-nine years old, thin as a whippet, with long, blond hair and a weather-beaten, heavily tanned face.

  But to Lara Ann he was glamour personified. She hovered outside his room, listening to him sing and play his guitar.

  “Is he a movie star?” she whispered to Mac.

  “No, he’s not a goddamn movie star,” Mac snapped. “Why’d you think that?”

  “ ’Cause he’s so . . . special,” Lara Ann replied.

  “You’re so dumb, what do you know?” Mac sneered.

  He was right. She was dumb. An ugly little slut who didn’t know anything.

  Morgan Creedo was appearing in a concert nearby, and she wanted more than anything to go.

  Later that day, when she delivered clean towels to Morgan Creedo’s room, she found him lying on the bed, watching a Western on television.

  “ ’Scuse me, sir,” she ventured.

  He barely glanced up. “Yeah—whaddaya want?”

  “I was wondering if you had a spare ticket to your concert,” she said boldly.

  He laughed. “You wanna come to my concert, little girl?”

  “Yes, I’d like that a lot.”

  “Well, well, well.” He sat up with a broad smile on his face. “Heard about how good I am, huh?”

  “I hope it’s not rude, but I’ve been standing outside your door listening to your singing. You sound real good to me.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty damn good, kid. Trouble is I’m the only person who appreciates me.” He got off the bed and stretched. “I’ll get you a ticket. You got a name?”

  “Lara Ann.”

  “Lara Ann, huh?” He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “How old’re you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  He laughed. “Old enough, huh?”

  “Do you have to be a certain age to come to your concert?” she asked, her beautiful face completely innocent.

  He laughed again. “Not what I was talking about, kid. Tell you what—I’ll leave you a ticket in the room. The concert’s tomorrow night. Come backstage after, an’ I’ll buy you a lemonade.”

  The next day she found the ticket he’d left for her on the dresser in his room. She stuffed it in her pocket, barely able to conceal her excitement.

  That night, after dinner was finished and she’d washed the dishes, she left the kitchen as if she was going to bed as usual, but she snuck out the back door, making her way by bus to the concert hall where Morgan Creedo was appearing, her precious ticket clutched tightly in her hand.

  The theater was vast, but Morgan had gotten her a seat right at the front. She was so excited she could barely breathe. Most of the audience had come to see the star act, a female country-and-western singer, but when Morgan hit the stage, Lara Ann felt butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

  He sang two songs. The audience didn’t seem that interested, but Lara Ann clapped until her hands hurt. As soon as he was finished, she got up her courage and went through a door that she thought might take her backstage.

  She was right. There were dozens of people running around. She spotted the star of the show with her big, lemon-colored hair, sequined dress and toothy smile. She stopped a girl with magenta curls, carrying a hairbrush.

  “ ’Scuse me,” she said politely. “I’m looking for Mr. Creedo.”

  “Oh, you mean Morgan? He’s outta here already.”

  “I was supposed to meet him. Do you know where he’d be?”

  “You’re a little young for Morgan, aren’t you?” the girl said, looking her up and down.

  “I’m a friend of his.”

  “Sure you are. Guess he’d be in the bar next door, sweetie, but I wouldn’t pursue it if I were you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I mean is, whyn’t you go on home. You’re too young for a reptile like him.”

  Lara Ann didn’t appreciate the girl calling Morgan a reptile. She made her way out of the stage door and hesitated on the street. There were two bars in sight, one across the street and one next to the theater. She decided the one next to the theater might be where he was.

  Pushing the door open, she was swept into a crowd of beer-drinking, card-playing men. She looked arou
nd, finally spotting Morgan at the bar, a glass in his hand. She went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What the fuck you want?” he said, turning around and staring at her with bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m from the motel, remember? You left me a ticket. Told me I could come see you tonight. My name’s Lara Ann.”

  “Ah Jesus, kid.”

  “You were so wonderful,” she said, her green eyes shining.

  “I was shit,” he replied bitterly. “I’m always shit. Did you hear? Those bastards didn’t even listen to me. They’re not interested—they just wanna eyeball that fuckin’ fat blonde with the big tits.”

  “I thought you were wonderful,” Lara Ann repeated.

  He squinted at her. “You’re a pretty little thing,” he said. “How old you say you were?”

  “Fifteen. But I’ll soon be sixteen.”

  “Big enough and old enough, huh?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Nothin’, darlin’—come here.” She moved closer to him. “You think I’m wonderful, huh?”

  “Oh yes,” she muttered adoringly.

  They were married three weeks later, on her sixteenth birthday. Aunt Lucy did not attend.

  It wasn’t until after they were married that Lara Ann realized Morgan had no home, only the cramped trailer attached to the battered old Cadillac he drove around the country. “It ain’t luxury, honey, but you’ll get used to it,” he informed her.

  She didn’t care. She finally had somebody who knew she existed and whom she could look after. She’d learned to cook by watching Aunt Lucy; her ironing was impeccable; and she knew how to sew, keep house and clean.

  What she didn’t know was anything about sex. But this didn’t bother Morgan.

  “I’m gonna teach you everything you need to know, honey,” he said. “This is what you do. You get down on your knees and you suck my dick till I come. That’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s all?” she said, thinking about all the things she’d read about kissing and cuddling and making love.

  “Yeah, so get goin’, honey. I’m gonna teach you how to do it like a pro.”

  They never did make love in the proper fashion. Morgan told her people only did it that way when they wanted to have kids. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but what could she do? He wasn’t interested in anything other than having her get down on her knees.

  Morgan Creedo proved himself a sonofabitch. He made Lara Ann into his love slave. And because he wasn’t a star, he let out all his frustrations on his young, innocent bride. Lara Ann had no one except him, and he liked that. He kept her to himself, never allowing her even to speak to anyone else.

  As she grew older, so she became more beautiful, which Morgan considered an added bonus. When he hit her—and he did often—he made sure he never touched her gorgeous face. In the back of his mind he thought that one day, when his career was over, he’d get her a job in porno movies. With her looks, she could make enough money to keep them both in luxury.

  “Ever thought about acting?” he asked one day.

  She shook her head.

  “You got what it takes, hon,” he said, unzipping his fly and pushing her to her knees.

  The following week he started taking her to movies so she could study the famous actresses on the screen.

  She fell in love with the moving images and the actors she observed. Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. Al Pacino and Jessica Lange. They were all so magical. They inspired her, making her realize that there was another life out there. Oh God, how she yearned for another life.

  By the time she was nineteen, Morgan was fed up. She might be beautiful, but she was also boring. She never answered back; let him get away with anything; serviced him whenever he wanted. He needed fire in a woman, not docile obedience. Maybe if he put her on the road to porno stardom she’d become more exciting.

  Lara Ann was also fed up—but for different reasons. She’d thought Morgan really cared for her, but as each day passed she understood that she was no more than his servant. The way he treated her, she might have been better off staying with Aunt Lucy.

  One day he informed her they were going to Hollywood. “I’ve got the number of a producer who’s promised to give you a break.”

  “A break at what?” she asked.

  “To be a movie star, dummy. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  They got in his old Cadillac and set off.

  Halfway to Los Angeles he stopped the car behind a gas station and told her to service him the way he liked.

  “No,” she said.

  “No,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe she was turning him down. “Do it, bitch. An’ don’t argue.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Once again he repeated her words. “You don’t want to.” Then he grabbed her by the hair with one hand, unzipped his fly with the other and forced her head into his lap.

  The novelty of her saying no made him come even faster than usual, and when he released her, she got in the back of the car and curled up on the seat, tears in her eyes, planning in her mind that when they reached L.A. she had to get away from Morgan and start afresh.

  God made it easy for her.

  Ten miles outside of Bar stow, Morgan fell asleep at the wheel. Seconds later their car skidded under a huge truck parked illegally on the highway.

  Lara Ann woke up in a hospital two days later.

  “Where’s Morgan?” she asked. “Where’s my husband?”

  Morgan was dead. He’d been decapitated in the accident.

  Once again she was by herself.

  • •

  “Are you all right, Lara, dear?” The English wardrobe woman stood in front of her, a concerned expression on her homely face.

  Lara glanced up, leaving the vividly real memories behind. “I’m fine,” she murmured.

  “I was knocking on the door for ages.”

  “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  “Mick says you’re finished for the day. Can I help you get dressed?”

  “That’s okay. Can you please make sure my driver’s outside?”

  “He’s there, dear.”

  “Thanks.”

  She couldn’t wait to get home to the safety of Joey’s arms. He was the only one she could truly depend on.

  CHAPTER

  48

  JOEY PROWLED AROUND A FASHIONABLY run-down pool hall on Sunset. Most of the guys were intent on the game, except a few who were checking out the eager girls sitting in a row at the bar, hoping to be picked up.

  Joey was edgy. For the first time in his life he realized he cared about someone, and this completely threw him. How had it happened? The instant he’d seen Lara he’d known it was going to be a whole other trip.

  And yet, he was using her—living in her house, going to her agent, allowing her to get him a part in Revenge. Before, when he’d been with a woman, he’d always had a reason. Now everything was different. Shit! He didn’t want to use her in any way.

  What was he going to do? Harden himself against her? Get it back to where it should be?

  He eyed the female talent at the bar. There were some pretty girls, but none of them came close to Lara.

  He zeroed in on the prettiest, a curly-haired brunette in a white low-cut dress, sipping a margarita. She was very young—too young.

  “Hi,” he said, approaching her.

  She looked him over, liking what she saw. “You’d better not hit on me,” she warned, flirting anyway. “I’m with my date, and he gets real mad.”

  “Which one’s your date?”

  She pointed out a short, balding guy across the room, intent on the game.

  “I’ve seen competition,” Joey said with a dry laugh. “An’ I gotta feelin’ he ain’t it.”

  She giggled, fluttering her long eyelashes, getting off on the attention. “I’m Tina. Who’re you?”

  “Bob,” he lied.

  “
Hi, Bob,” she said, small pink tongue snaking out to lick the rim of her margarita glass in a suggestive fashion.

  “Hi, Tina,” he replied, giving her intense eye contact.

  Could this vampy little brunette persuade him to forget Lara? Could she make him fall out of love?

  He sincerely doubted it. “What’s your phone number, Tina?” he asked, deciding he’d pursue it anyway.

  “I can’t give you that!” she said, shrieking with laughter. “I told you, I’m with my date.”

  “Yeah, but what if you break up with him tonight?” he said, giving her the full intense stare. “Wouldn’t you be sorry you hadn’t given me your number?”

  She thought that one over. “Well . . . okay, but if he sees, he’s gonna kill me. And you.” Furtively she scrawled her number on a matchbook and handed it to him.

  Score one. He’d probably never call her. Who gave a shit?

  He left the pool hall and drove to a strip club several blocks down the street, paying an exorbitant price at the door.

  The strippers were lackluster, contemptuous of their patrons, undulating and gyrating with a distinct lack of energy. He concentrated on a sloe-eyed blonde, lowering her quivering thighs up and down a steel pole, wearing only a G-string and a bra with cutouts that exposed her nipples. She didn’t do a thing for him.

  “Take it off, honeypot,” yelled a fat guy sitting to his right. “Get naked so’s I kin get a real good look at those big, bouncy jimmy jammies!”

  The girl slithered across the floor to the man who was doing the shouting. “A hundred bucks’ll buy you a private dance,” she said, provocatively sliding her tongue across pouty lips.

  “Honeypot, I’m buyin’!” the fat man crowed, sweat beading his upper lip.

  “Back room, ten minutes,” the stripper said, taking a long sideways look at Joey. Their eyes met for a moment. He saw the interest start to rise. “How ’bout you, baby?” she crooned, with a slight lisp. “Wanna visit paradise?”

  He didn’t bother replying. Strippers. They were all into each other anyway. The ones he’d known harbored a deep hatred for the guys who sat and ogled them, referring to them as losers and dorks, guys who couldn’t get it up in normal life.