Sweet Dreams
Page 175
Even with Mom and Carrie’s great cooking, family and friends all around (because practically everyone in Carnal trooped through our house the last few days) and almost constant Christmas music being played (because I might give into Tate and Jonas not liking it much but Mom was a Christmas Music Freak and she knew I loved it too and I’d been abducted, beaten and stabbed so she was going to play my beloved Christmas music even if Tate was a badass) things hadn’t been good.
We’d had to unplug the phone so many people were calling and not just friends and family. My ex-friends from Horizon Summit had all phoned and Tate was not very diplomatic when he’d answered these calls, usually saying something like, “You one of those who hung Laurie out to dry when her f**kwad husband was cheating on her?” Pause for answer then, “Bullshit, go f**k yourself,” then disconnect (when Carrie heard this, she burst out laughing, every time).
We also had calls from journalists for print and television and even a production company that wanted to pitch a reality program, starring Tate.
Not joking. A reality program starring Tate.
“No, Dad!” Jonas shouted from the floor, taking my mind off my thoughts. Jonas was nearly bouncing in excitement and not taking his eyes from the TV screen.
“Nittany Lions fans still feel the pain remembering Jackson’s professional football career being cut short when he was hit with an illegal tackle in the endzone after forcing a fumble, recovering it and entering the endzone in a monumental touchdown in the last seconds that won the Eagles the game against their rivals the Giants,” the commentator continued.
“After leaving football,” the other commentator took up the story, “Jackson became a decorated police officer and is now one of the most sought after, and successful, fugitive apprehension agents in the country.” He grinned devilishly at the camera. “That’s bounty hunters to those of us not in the game.”
“But, little would he know,” the other commentator butted in, his voice had gone grave, “that two days before Christmas Eve, Jackson would be hunting a serial killer who’d murdered his ex-girlfriend, an employee and a string of other young, innocent females over a four year period and who had, that very night, abducted Jackson’s fiancée.”
The commentators switched. “Even with the murderer on the loose for four years, the Federal Bureau of Investigations failed to crack the case, but Jackson cornered the killer within an hour and handed him over to the local authorities, saving the life of a local, who’d been stabbed, and his fiancée, who had been stabbed and beaten but luckily otherwise unharmed.”
“Bullshit,” Tate muttered, “total bullshit.”
“Tate,” I whispered, “shush.”
“Let’s take a look at Tatum Jackson’s career,” the commentator invited with a warm smile and then we were treated to a montage with a pre-recorded voiceover and sappy music playing over a variety of live action and still pictures of Tate’s short football career with some still frames of Tate’s longer bounty hunter career. These were pictures I recognized from Loretta’s stalker site, pictures I knew would mean about seven thousand new Tate Stalker Sites were going to spring up. The football footage included the tackle that took out Tate’s knee, a late tackle and dirty, made by an offensive lineman who was unbelievably huge, and, worst of all, it looked like it freaking hurt and I could have done without seeing that.
The montage done – with a photo in the top, left corner of the screen of Tate, looking tired, but definitely still smokin’ hot, striding purposefully toward the hospital, his eyes straight, his hand on Jonas’s shoulder, Jonas’s face blurred out – the camera closed in on one of the sports commentators as he looked soberly straight into the camera.
“They blurred out my face!” Jonas shouted, clearly aggrieved.
“Every Sunday,” the commentator’s voice was low and serious, “we report to you about the heroes of the gridiron. Many of those men do good deeds but not many of them save lives. Tatum Jackson, a promising recruit for the Eagles, had his football career cut tragically short. But the real tragedy would have been if Jackson had not gone on to protect the people of the town of Carnal, Colorado and the future victims of the vicious May-December murderer. Our hats off to you, Jackson. You are a true hero.”
“Fucking hell,” Tate muttered and I giggled which was bad since it hurt my side.
“I liked it,” Mack declared, lying on the floor with Jonas and Carrie, he rolled to his back and looked up at Tate and me, “pure drama, absolute class.”
Tate scowled at the screen and ignored Mack. “They didn’t mention Jim-Billy.”
“We all love Jim-Billy but, it must be said, Jim-Billy isn’t as hot as you, Tate,” Carrie noted, also turning but lifting up with her forearms in Mack’s chest. “And, as far as I know, he didn’t make the All-American team,” she hesitated before finishing, “twice.”
“I think we should do the reality show,” Jonas chimed in. “That would be so cool!”
“We?” I asked Jonas.
“Bub, get that outta your head. Not gonna happen,” Tate said over me.
“We!” Jonas ignored Tate. “You, me and Dad. You and me will be, like, the brains behind the action, doin’ searches on Dad’s computer and, I don’t know, other stuff.”
“The brains behind the action,” Dad murmured through a chuckle.
“Laurie would look hot on TV.” Jonas thought this was enticement but it was not.
“Reason one not to do it,” Tate said to Jonas.
“Why is that reason one?” Jonas asked his father.
“Bub, it isn’t gonna happen,” Tate repeated.
“She’d be hot, you’d be cool and I’d be famous!” Jonas shouted.
That’s when Tate got mad, so mad, he didn’t weigh his words.
“You think Dalton McIntyre is the only cracked f**kwad out there? You want Laurie on TV so any sick f**k can fixate on her? Bub. It. Is. Not. Gonna. Happen.”
Jonas’s face got pale and my body got tight. Then Jonas shot up from the floor and ran from the room.
I started to make a move, mumbling, “I’ll go –”
“I’ll go,” Mom said over me, didn’t look at anyone, and swept from the room.
Dad got up from the armchair announcing, “We’re out of beer.”
We’d had to unplug the phone so many people were calling and not just friends and family. My ex-friends from Horizon Summit had all phoned and Tate was not very diplomatic when he’d answered these calls, usually saying something like, “You one of those who hung Laurie out to dry when her f**kwad husband was cheating on her?” Pause for answer then, “Bullshit, go f**k yourself,” then disconnect (when Carrie heard this, she burst out laughing, every time).
We also had calls from journalists for print and television and even a production company that wanted to pitch a reality program, starring Tate.
Not joking. A reality program starring Tate.
“No, Dad!” Jonas shouted from the floor, taking my mind off my thoughts. Jonas was nearly bouncing in excitement and not taking his eyes from the TV screen.
“Nittany Lions fans still feel the pain remembering Jackson’s professional football career being cut short when he was hit with an illegal tackle in the endzone after forcing a fumble, recovering it and entering the endzone in a monumental touchdown in the last seconds that won the Eagles the game against their rivals the Giants,” the commentator continued.
“After leaving football,” the other commentator took up the story, “Jackson became a decorated police officer and is now one of the most sought after, and successful, fugitive apprehension agents in the country.” He grinned devilishly at the camera. “That’s bounty hunters to those of us not in the game.”
“But, little would he know,” the other commentator butted in, his voice had gone grave, “that two days before Christmas Eve, Jackson would be hunting a serial killer who’d murdered his ex-girlfriend, an employee and a string of other young, innocent females over a four year period and who had, that very night, abducted Jackson’s fiancée.”
The commentators switched. “Even with the murderer on the loose for four years, the Federal Bureau of Investigations failed to crack the case, but Jackson cornered the killer within an hour and handed him over to the local authorities, saving the life of a local, who’d been stabbed, and his fiancée, who had been stabbed and beaten but luckily otherwise unharmed.”
“Bullshit,” Tate muttered, “total bullshit.”
“Tate,” I whispered, “shush.”
“Let’s take a look at Tatum Jackson’s career,” the commentator invited with a warm smile and then we were treated to a montage with a pre-recorded voiceover and sappy music playing over a variety of live action and still pictures of Tate’s short football career with some still frames of Tate’s longer bounty hunter career. These were pictures I recognized from Loretta’s stalker site, pictures I knew would mean about seven thousand new Tate Stalker Sites were going to spring up. The football footage included the tackle that took out Tate’s knee, a late tackle and dirty, made by an offensive lineman who was unbelievably huge, and, worst of all, it looked like it freaking hurt and I could have done without seeing that.
The montage done – with a photo in the top, left corner of the screen of Tate, looking tired, but definitely still smokin’ hot, striding purposefully toward the hospital, his eyes straight, his hand on Jonas’s shoulder, Jonas’s face blurred out – the camera closed in on one of the sports commentators as he looked soberly straight into the camera.
“They blurred out my face!” Jonas shouted, clearly aggrieved.
“Every Sunday,” the commentator’s voice was low and serious, “we report to you about the heroes of the gridiron. Many of those men do good deeds but not many of them save lives. Tatum Jackson, a promising recruit for the Eagles, had his football career cut tragically short. But the real tragedy would have been if Jackson had not gone on to protect the people of the town of Carnal, Colorado and the future victims of the vicious May-December murderer. Our hats off to you, Jackson. You are a true hero.”
“Fucking hell,” Tate muttered and I giggled which was bad since it hurt my side.
“I liked it,” Mack declared, lying on the floor with Jonas and Carrie, he rolled to his back and looked up at Tate and me, “pure drama, absolute class.”
Tate scowled at the screen and ignored Mack. “They didn’t mention Jim-Billy.”
“We all love Jim-Billy but, it must be said, Jim-Billy isn’t as hot as you, Tate,” Carrie noted, also turning but lifting up with her forearms in Mack’s chest. “And, as far as I know, he didn’t make the All-American team,” she hesitated before finishing, “twice.”
“I think we should do the reality show,” Jonas chimed in. “That would be so cool!”
“We?” I asked Jonas.
“Bub, get that outta your head. Not gonna happen,” Tate said over me.
“We!” Jonas ignored Tate. “You, me and Dad. You and me will be, like, the brains behind the action, doin’ searches on Dad’s computer and, I don’t know, other stuff.”
“The brains behind the action,” Dad murmured through a chuckle.
“Laurie would look hot on TV.” Jonas thought this was enticement but it was not.
“Reason one not to do it,” Tate said to Jonas.
“Why is that reason one?” Jonas asked his father.
“Bub, it isn’t gonna happen,” Tate repeated.
“She’d be hot, you’d be cool and I’d be famous!” Jonas shouted.
That’s when Tate got mad, so mad, he didn’t weigh his words.
“You think Dalton McIntyre is the only cracked f**kwad out there? You want Laurie on TV so any sick f**k can fixate on her? Bub. It. Is. Not. Gonna. Happen.”
Jonas’s face got pale and my body got tight. Then Jonas shot up from the floor and ran from the room.
I started to make a move, mumbling, “I’ll go –”
“I’ll go,” Mom said over me, didn’t look at anyone, and swept from the room.
Dad got up from the armchair announcing, “We’re out of beer.”
