12. Johnny

The apprehension in my belly's like a sidewinder slithering over hot red dirt, getting more wiggly the closer and closer we get to Kurt's house.

The farther I get from Vegas, the more my problems seem to pile up without any solutions in sight. Mama's still sick, and now I don't have any real plan to get her the transplant. Kurt says he'll help fundraise, but will that work? How long will it take? Will she make it? The possibility of her … not … is unacceptable. And I can't take his money, no matter how much he says he has.

I'm married to a man I don't know. Sure, he's cute (and pushy), but I probably should've left him at the hotel bar last night. I feel like a street urchin adopted by the local moneybags, and that's not me. I don't wanna rely on anyone else.

If I was gonna stay alive, I shouldn't have done that retirement speech. Now I've got no money and no prospects. I'm a five-cent head wearing a ten-dollar Stetson. Well, it cost more than ten dollars, but you get my drift. It's not like I have many skills. I've only been a porn star and worked on a ranch. No schooling past eleventh grade.

I've got myself in a predicament with no way out. I'm as jumpy as a cat in a room of rocking chairs.

The panicky feeling gets worse as the GPS directs me to a high-end part of Los Angeles. Sure, Kurt told me he's got money, but it's different to see it. I've always lived in the cheapest place I could stand, so I could send as much as possible to my mama.

How can I send money to her now? I set a lot aside for her, but without the life insurance money, it'll run out eventually.

You know what the answer is. Kill yourself. Then she'll have the money.

My blood pressure shoots even higher when I slow the BMW at the entrance to Kurt's gated neighborhood. There must be a sensor in the car, or a transmitter or I don't even know what, because the gates open automatically, and he directs me to the driveway of a three-story condo. It's not what I imagined when he said he lived in a condo—it's Southern California modern, up on a bluff overlooking Highway 1. From what I can see between the structures, I expect the interior will have unobstructed beach views. Given the location, the manicured lawns, and the perfectly maintained homes, this development has to be stratospherically expensive.

It's one thing for me to accept a nice hotel suite for a weekend as part of an award. It's quite another to, what, freeload off Kurt indefinitely?

I'm a loser, yet again.

When I pull into the three-car garage next to a brand-new Volvo, I turn off the BMW and stay put in my seat. The space is lined with shiny gray cabinets and black-framed racing posters, and it's so clean you could eat off the pristine floor. It looks more like a showroom than a garage. I grip the steering wheel and let out a breath.

"Johnny?" Kurt says quietly, turning toward me. "What's wrong?"

"Where's the closest Greyhound station?"

Kurt chokes out a laugh. "What? Why?"

"Because I can't do this," I say through clenched teeth. "I ain't a gold digger."

He pauses a moment before he asks, "Is that what you think I think?"

"I dunno what you think."

"Look at me," he orders, and I do. His pretty brown eyes are intense and pleading. "Johnny. You're not using me."

I shake my head. "Not intentionally, but this is still a bad idea."

"Can you be more specific as to what's the bad idea?" He chuckles and spreads his hands wide. "Because you and I have made a few bad decisions in the past two days—namely your whole plan to remove yourself from the planet and us getting drunk-married." He pauses. "Shit, that was insensitive. Suicide isn't a joke."

"I figure if we can't joke about it, we can't talk about it," I say. My heart is still beating halfway out of my chest, but it's maybe a little better than it was a minute ago. "I'm okay with you teasing me."

"Phew. But which bad decision are you talking about?"

"Me coming here," I start. "Putting you in this situation where you have to deal with the fallout of marrying an adult entertainer. All my …" I wave at my head. "All of it."

"Okay, for starters, that's not all on you. Last night is pretty fuzzy, but I think getting married was my idea."

I rack my brain, trying to remember which of us suggested going into the chapel. It might've been him. I was in a ‘Fuck it, it's the last day of my life' mood, which is why I went along with it. Though my drunk brain certainly recognized a man I'm attracted to. That's for damn sure.

I look at his sweet face. Even though I don't deserve him—he's rich and educated and a literal poster boy, while I work, worked, in the shadows of society—I still really like him. Really want him.

I shrug. "Don't matter whose idea it was. I … I don't belong here."

He reaches out and touches my shoulder, and I can't help leaning into his touch. "Hey. This has to be a shock to your system—being with me when you don't know me, getting married, and everything else. Especially with all that's been bothering you lately. But do you think you could come inside? I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I'm not going to let you fend for yourself right now. That's just … No. So I don't mean to be holding you hostage. But I do mean to be helping you." He gives me a grin. "And maybe you can help me, too."

I'm not sure how that would ever be possible, but it's nice to imagine. "How could I do that?"

"If you're my husband, you may need to go to a few public events with me." He holds up his hands. "Not now, not while you're feeling bad. But maybe when you feel better. Would you consider it?"

Of course I'd consider it. Kurt doesn't owe me anything—in fact, I've caused a ton of problems for him—yet he's sitting here wanting to take care of me. Of course I'll do anything I can to balance the scales.

He's being reasonable. I'm the one who's being a butthead. I tell the wailing violin in my head to hush.

"Yeah," I whisper.

"Can I ask you one more favor?" His voice is wary.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll stay alive today?"

Well, heck. Tension grips me, but … one day. And it's already half over. "Yeah," I say again. "I can do that."

I can't even die right.

Kurt smiles, and he leans toward me, but then he stops. "Thank you. That's all you have to do. C'mon, let me show you around. I used to live in an older bungalow, but when this development got built, I had to get in on it."

I nod, and we get out of the car, leaving our bags for the time being. I follow him up a flight of stairs into the bright, open condo. Sure enough, there's an expansive balcony overlooking the beach. I take off my dusty boots and leave them at the door. The place is spacious, and it's immediately apparent that it's a bachelor pad—no pets, no kids, nothing to mess it up. After I get a better look at the leather furniture, colorful art, and clean lines, I want to turn right around and head back to the garage.

Kurt sees the look on my face as he removes his own shoes. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I say.

"Honesty," he reminds me.

"Just … what we were talking about in the car. I don't belong here."

"Babe." My whole body relaxes when he calls me that, even if the peaceful feeling won't last. "We need to focus on you feeling better. Everything else is secondary."

"Why are you being so—" I gesture helplessly. "Like this. I'm a stranger. You don't know me at all. I know at times it seems I'm studying to be a half-wit, but even I can tell what you're doing don't make an ounce of sense."

A pained look passes across Kurt's face. "We already talked about this. But I guess there's one thing I haven't told you. One big thing." He starts pacing in front of a breakfast bar. I stand in the middle of his living room in my stocking feet, watching him. "My high school boyfriend, Andrei, killed himself. He used pills and razors, and when his parents found him, it was too late. He'd bled out."

"Oh, shit," I hiss, my stomach sinking.

Way to fuck up Kurt's life as much as you've fucked up everyone else's.

"It … it fucking gutted me. No one saw how bad he was feeling. I didn't realize. I didn't stop him." He bites his lip, and his eyes well up. "I still see him in my nightmares."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Kurt."

He takes a breath and seems to get ahold of himself. "Yeah. So. Time has made it … less. It's dulled the pain somewhat, but that loss, that guilt has never gone away." He gets almost clinical, like he's repeating something that's been said to him. "Suicide has implications far beyond the individual. For the people left behind, there's a void that can't be filled."

"Okay," I say, feeling like I need to say something.

"I kind of fell apart for a while. Not that—I don't mean to privilege my reactions over the pain Andrei must have been in. Anyway, the whole experience made my parents sticklers for mental health care. After that, if the smallest thing happened, I saw a therapist." He lets out a rueful laugh. "I've had a lot of fucking therapy over the years, let me tell you."

"It sounds like it."

"All I'm saying is, mental health matters. It should matter to everyone. It definitely matters to me. So please, stay with me, and let's get you the help you need. Let me do this."

"I'm a stubborn bastard, and I don't think I'll ever get used to accepting charity," I tell him.

"It's not charity."

"How is giving me a free place to stay, arranging for me to get medical care, helping my mama—how is that not charity?"

"I'd call it just being a decent human being," Kurt says.

"It's so far beyond that?—"

"By staying, you're helping me feel like I'm making amends for the way I let Andrei down."

I swallow. "I don't think you let him down."

"Will you at least try to allow me to help, anyway?"

While part of me wants to keep fighting him, I relent again. "I'll try."