2. Johnny

The night before

Itake a slow, steady breath and put my hand on the doorknob. Am I gonna go with plan A or plan B?

Plan A means I make it through this event here, then go back up to my hotel suite to do the deed. I've explained everything to my fans in a video that'll go live tomorrow. Plan A has a certain poetry to it, what with this evening's award. Plus, most importantly, it'll get the job done: Mama will have what she needs.

With plan B, I get a little bit of payback along with taking care of Mama. Plan B's the pistol in the holster under my dinner jacket—and I haven't decided who's going to be on the receiving end of its bullets. I have to admit, Plan B has more flair. With plan B, they'll really be sorry.

Decisions, decisions. If only I could figure out who deserves it more—them or me?

Why not both?

With my mouth dry and my heart racing, I saunter into the crowded dining room of the swanky Las Vegas hotel. I'm entering a den of my industry peers who are gathered, at least in part, in my honor. What a joke.

I'm a failure.

The noise level's about the same as a stampede of a couple hundred head of cattle, so everyone's shouting to be heard over the loud, sexy music and the other boisterous conversations.

My muscles tense as I wind my way around the circular dining tables covered with lavender tablecloths and fancy china. It's Saturday night. I'm wearing my best white cowboy hat, a rented tuxedo, and my favorite boots. I'm a lot taller than most folks, and the boots and hat make me taller still, so I stand out. More than a few conversations stutter when I lope past, but I'm used to everyone's eyes being on me.

Get a good look while you can, folks. One way or another, I'm finishing things. Tonight.

My chest tightens.

You'd think I'd be soaking it all in—the gaudy colors of my porn star peers' evening wear, the heady floral arrangements with decorative glass dildos as accents.

In reality, I've got tunnel vision. I've been that way ever since The Incident.

After tonight, though, I won't have to think about The Incident ever again, which is a second blessing on top of fixing my primary problem. Not that I deserve any blessings.

My mama's sweet voice tells me cryin' about the past wastes good tears. She's right. And I've wasted plenty.

Enough's enough.

That sad violin is playing in my head. Its plaintive, ripping-out-my-heart sound haunts me, like always. Instructing me to do more, fix things for her. The violin's been overwhelmingly loud lately, but it'll be silent soon enough.

My stomach's tight, and my jaw hurts from clenching it. I need to make my way toward my table at the front with the other honorees, but that means passing by a lot of people I'd rather not talk to. I draw in another heavy breath, let it out, then nod at the folks I like and ignore the ones I don't. I'm doing my best not to glare, but I'm not sure I'm succeeding.

As Mama always says, we can disagree, but we needn't be disagreeable about it.

At the opposite end of the ballroom, I spot the last person I'd ever want to see. Gary Pinkerton sneers at me and deliberately turns his back. Nausea hits me again. I need to get the heck outta here.

But that would mean they got the best of me, so I grind my teeth and rub my wrists.

They're not bound. I'm okay.

Well, I'm not okay. I'm sure a vein in my neck is popping. I make a fist, and my fingers itch to pull the trigger.

I've never been a particularly violent man, but there's an exception to everything, and he's the one who gets my blood boiling. I have enough presence of mind to hold my horses, though.

Which is more important, Johnny, saving her … or vengeance?

She can't die. Vengeance may be just a fantasy on my part.

Plan A it is, then.

A tiny whirlwind of energy invades my space. "Velvet!" Tawni flings her arms around my waist, knocking me out of my thoughts. I'm way too tall for her, so she can't reach my neck too well. She and I don't do scenes together, since I don't fuck women, but our paths have crossed more than once, and she's a real sweetheart, which is rare in this predatory industry. Raven black hair, dark brown eyes, pretty face. She's got a great smile. I'm gonna miss it.

Gonna miss her.

"Hey, darlin'." I side hug her and brush a kiss to the top of her glossy head.

"Congrats on your award!" she gushes.

"Thank you, thank you." I have to make an effort to get my lips to work but give her a crooked grin. When did I last smile?

Before The Incident.

Tawni pokes my chest teasingly. "I havta say, getting a lifetime achievement award, Johnny? You're not that old."

I hook my thumbs in my pants pockets. "No, I ain't."

"How old are you, anyway?" she asks, twirling a lock of her long hair.

I tell her.

"That's my point!"

"You're too kind," I say, scratching the back of my neck.

"Aww, no. You're kind. You're actually the best." Someone calls out her name, and she turns to them and waves. Then she turns back to me and chirps, "Congrats, babe! Love you," and squeezes me again before zipping off to go squeal at someone else before I can say it back. Damn adorable woman.

She managed to distract me from my dark mood, but it returns like the tide. I smooth down my jacket and bite down on my bottom lip. Get through this.

Ace Dalton, my agent, approaches and shakes my hand. "Congratulations, Johnny. This is a big night for you!"

"Yeah, thanks, Ace. Appreciate it."

"Did you get the flowers I sent?"

"I sure did. Thank you much." He sent a bouquet of pink roses along with a generic note, likely dictated by his assistant. The thought counts, I guess.

"You doing okay? Seems you've been down in the dumps."

I keep myself from barking out a laugh. Dumps? The dumps look like paradise from where I am. "Yeah, okay, I guess."

Ace gives me a hard look. "Your mom okay?"

Fuck. "Dialysis sucks. Takes away her quality of life something fierce. She's … going to be better."

"Oh? You get some good news?"

"No, but any day now," I say. If I have anything to say about it. "I'm sure she'll get a transplant."

"I'm pulling for her. And for you, of course. I've been shopping you around," he says, "but no luck so far."

"Well, thank you."

"Stay camera ready. We'll find you a new project soon enough." He opens his mouth to say something else, but the emcee gets up and asks us to take our seats. I heave out a breath of relief. I timed getting to this event perfectly and managed to miss having to mingle too much.

I'm seated with nine other honorees at a highlighted front table. We're served a salad, some kind of chicken with vegetables, and fancy-shaped potatoes, but I don't eat much. My nerves are too jangly.

They start the award presentations during dessert. Since mine will be last, I have plenty of time to consider what I'm going to say. This is my final chance to open my mouth and tell these people what I think of them. My lawyers told me to keep my mouth shut, but I have to give a speech of some kind or another.

Ideas war inside my head. Do I simply say thank you and zip my lip? Do I tell them exactly how rotten some of them are? Or do I take this opportunity to make things better and share my ideas to improve the industry?

Well, I hope it'd be making things better. Heck, maybe I'd make them worse if I opened my trap.

I'm a damn disappointment.

When it's my turn, jitters go through me like a tornado through a trailer park.

The emcee has slick black hair and is wearing a shiny silver tuxedo. "Our final honoree is someone who needs no introduction, but I'm going to do it anyway," he says. "A pioneer in many different online formats, he's starred in films for the past seventeen years and has among the most streaming views of all male entertainers. He's hot and popular, and the fans voted him to receive our highest honor, a lifetime achievement award. Please join me and put your hands together for Velvet the Cowboy." He gestures toward me with an open palm, as if to say "Ta-da!"

Finding my smile and pasting it on, I rise and wave at the crowd. While people at a few tables, including the one that I'm at, are giving me a standing ovation, some in the back and on the sides have dour expressions, arms crossed over their chests.

Well, I don't want or need their approval, and after tonight I'll never have to see them again.

I don't deserve an ovation.

I climb the stairs to the stage, legs trembling and boots heavy, receive the heavy clear acrylic award, and shake the emcee's hand. Then I step up to the microphone and clear my throat. Tawni's looking at me expectantly, and a few other friends in the audience shoot me encouraging smiles, unlike the bastard—bastards—glowering in the back. "Thank y'all very kindly," I say. "I'd especially like to thank the fans for this award. It means a lot to me that y'all appreciated my body of work."

Say more. Say more, say what you really think, say it.

But my lawyers' admonitions echo in my ears. Danny put it bluntly: "Don't fuck up the case, Johnny."

So instead of telling the truth about the people in this room who deserve to be called out, I pivot. "With this award, I'm announcing my retirement."

There's a collective gasp. Tawni's hand flies to her mouth. Ace's eyes protrude like a cartoon character's, and his face reddens. I probably should've mentioned that to him first. A little late now.

I can never do anything right.

I stand there awkwardly for another moment. I've got nothing else to say that isn't skewering all the people not clapping. So I tip my hat, give them my best smirk, and say, "I thank you again for the recognition. Now, if you'll 'scuse me, I'm going to go do something else tonight. Good night, and"—my voice cracks—"goodbye."

Award in hand, I flee the stage, exiting out the closest double doors, hearing a low but rising rumble of voices at my back.

When I step into the hallway, my nostrils flare and I sweep my arms out wide, almost hitting a trash can with the award. I want to punch something. Or kick something.

I don't.

It's time for plan A.

I take the elevator to my suite and drop the award in my bag. Then I sit down and write a note on the hotel's stationery.

When I get halfway down the page, I reread it.

Dear Mama,

I'm sorry you've been sick and I haven't been able to help you get better. That's the one thing I've tried to do right in my life—get you healthy. Maybe this time, I can succeed.

Please take the life insurance money and get the kidney. That's what I want most. You have to get better.

You've taught me all the good things. The bad things were all on me.

Should I say more? Or less?

I'm not a poet. I scribble:

I love you and May Ella. Thank you for all you've done for me.

Love,

Johnny

I put the note in an envelope, seal it up and write her name and address on the outside, and set it in my luggage.

Then I stare at the bathroom door, knowing what's waiting for me inside. Pills to dull the pain. The gun'll finish the job.

Mayyybee I need some liquid courage to get me started.

I keep the tux on. Might as well get my money's worth on the rental. I go downstairs, walk quickly through the lobby, and leave my own hotel, with its numerous bars. I wanna avoid seeing anyone from the ceremony. Wanna avoid answering questions about my retirement. Or anything else.

The casino across the way is quieter than the one I came from, and the first watering hole inside is upscale, with a restrained interior for Vegas—soft lighting, fresh flowers, black leather seats—and a few spaces at the bar. I park my ass in one of the seats and wait for the bartender, who's busy with a couple at the end.

She comes over to me and asks, "What'll it be?" as she sets down a thick paper coaster.

"What do you suggest for someone who's just hammered the final nail into the coffin of their career?"

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "I'll get you a triple shot of whiskey."

"Sounds good." I watch her pour the drink and keep a careful eye on it as it goes from her side of the bar to mine.

I give her my debit card, open a tab, then down the liquor.

I'm gonna need all the help I can to make it through the rest of my evening.

The last one of my life.