Chapter 11

Becki

When the sun comes up, I decide I’m not going to pretend I'm asleep anymore. Anton is still sleeping soundly. I take a shower and end up throwing away my underwear when I get out, because they reek of piss. Anton still hasn’t even moved. I consider rifling through is belongings to find bullets for the gun on the desk, but I probably wouldn’t be able to load the fucking thing.

I go outside quietly and walk around. It’s early, and nothing is moving. I know I should find a phone and call for help, and I walk down the row of rooms to the filthy pay-phone attached to the last room. I lean against the graffiti-covered metal booth for a couple minutes, sobbing twice. I dig through my pockets and find a quarter (does 911 cost money?) but don’t know who I would call, so I put it back in the pocket of my jeans. Finally, I go and lean against the black Porsche for a while.

A guy in a rumpled suit comes out of the room in front of me, leading a sickly-thin woman in a half-shirt and hot pants. Her sprayed hair has been battered down by sleep and her over-done makeup has run over her face. I don’t like they way he smiles at me, so, so I flip him off. “Little cunt,” he mutters loud enough for me to hear as they walk away. He stops suddenly and turns around. After a moment, he whispers something to the woman, who also turns. When I think he’s about to say something else, he laughs and they turn away.

If you only knew.

I’m overcome and my eyes tear up, but I choke back the sobbing. I can’t let anyone see me cry. If anyone tried to comfort me they’d recognize me for sure. I can’t let Anton know what he has done to me. I can’t cry, or he’ll smell it.

He can’t expect me to kill someone. It has to be some kind of joke. A sick joke. I can’t kill a person, I’m only sixteen! Does he think that I can do anything I want because I’m famous? I can’t get away with fucking murder!

There is nothing I want more right now than to be far away from Anton Lazarus.

“Good morning,” Anton says, walking up behind me.

I rub the tears off my cheeks and turn around.

Anton is dressed in a pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a blazing red tie. I don’t remember him bringing inside any luggage last night. “You didn’t call anyone.”

I can't tell if that was a question. “No,” I say without looking at his face. I want so badly to scream, scream and run, but I know that the black Porsche would just pull up beside me and I would have to get in. The butt of his gun is pressed against the armpit of his unwrinkled jacket.

“We need to go,” he says, pulling the car keys out of his pocket. There is a plastic key-chain attached, with the slogan “BORN TO RAISE HELL!!” imprinted on the chartreuse yellow plastic.

The red-neck boys in my high school used to wear dirty, grease-stained shirts with things like that written on them. I was one of the first girls in my school to have breasts, and from then on, I could feel the eyes of those boys crawling over me as I walked down the halls. I wanted nothing more than to hide myself away from them, make myself invisible to them. I knew they went home and jerked off thinking about me. Now I have everyone in the whole country doing that. Every person at a concert, every television camera, they’re all just another set of eyes that either wants to be me, or sleep with me. I just wanted to sing a song. Nobody ever said it would be like this.

“I have things to show you today,” Anton says. He unlocks the car doors and we get in. “So, what did you think of that place?” he asks as he starts up the car.

“I’ve had better,” I say with no emotion.

“I stomped a roach to death in the shower,” I says with a smile in his voice. He looks over at me, his eyes lingering a little too long. “You’re going to eat something this morning,” he says, leaving no room for protests.

“Another diner?” I ask with a sigh.

“No,” he says, starting the car. “No time, I want to be in North Carolina by this afternoon.” He looks down at his Rolex. “I slept a little later than I planned, we’re going to be cutting it close.” He looks back up at me as he pulls away from the curb. “I have big plans for the day.” He turns on the radio–more classical–and says, “Besides, the hooker with the businessman recognized you. He has some connections with your record company that I don’t like. I want to be out of this area as soon as possible.”

There is enough mystery to Anton as it is without having him explain. “So, what are we going to eat then?” I ask. I’m a lot less nervous now, and hunger is starting to set in.

He looks me over and says, “I can’t believe Little Miss Fashion Queen only brought one outfit.” He shakes his head agin. “We’ll have to get fast food.” Anton rolls his window down, even though it’s kind of cold. “Then you're getting some new clothes.”

“I don’t have much money,” I lie, even though I think I told him the truth earlier.

Anton pulls a black leather wallet out of the inner pocket of his suit-jacket and hands it to me. Inside are ten crisp $100 bills. “With the $300 you have, we should be set for a while.”

I look away sheepishly.

We get breakfast at a drive-thru, just in time for Anton to persuade the bean bag at the window to make two last egg and cheese croissants before they change over to the lunch menu. We pass a few cities and more green mountains than I’ve ever wanted to see before Anton finally says we’ve crossed into South Carolina. He refused to stop all morning, and my bladder’s on fire. After much pleading, Anton agrees to stop in Charleston for lunch. The last time I was here, one of the lifts malfunctioned on stage when I was doing a kick, and I sprained my ankle. The doctors recommended I take a week off, but my manager and his lawyer had me back on stage the next night.

Anton seems tense, so I’ve kept my complaints to a minimum, which my mother will gladly tell you, is no easy task. The small breakfast passes on, and I’m hungry again by the time we get into the city.

“Can we get food someplace?” I ask, squirming in my bucket seat. “I’m starving, Anton.”

“Quit fucking whining,” he mutters.

I turn and look out the window. I want to start crying, but am afraid of what that would provoke in him. I’m really regretting this ride. I should have just stayed at the hotel. I should have gone on with the show. I’m still not sure if he was serious about the whole killing thing. I do know though, that Anton Lazarus is one seriously fucked up human being. I think I should call the police if I can get away from him for a couple minutes. He seems to trust me enough to let me alone for short periods. After all, he thinks I want to be here.

“We’ll stop someplace soon,” he says. “Not many of the restaurants around here can make a good vegetarian meal.” His tone is flat and lifeless, and I almost don’t want to talk to him. The silence is a lot more uncomfortable though.

“You’re a vegetarian?” I ask, more to have some kind of conversation to take my mind off the terrible music.

“Yeah, I can’t even remember the last time I ate meat.”

I nod, not looking at him. “That’s weird.”

He is quiet for a second, in what I assume is shock. “Is it weird to not want to see one of your fellow living creatures butchered? Would you want someone to take your cat, hang her up by her feet, cut her throat and bleed her to death?”

I grimace. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s like that with pigs,” He says, disgust oozing from his speech. He stares straight ahead at the asphalt. “Cattle are lead into a room one by one where a giant air gun drives a steel bolt into their skull.”

“That’s disgusting,” I groan.

“It used to be done with a hammer,” he says. He points to an Indian restaurant lodged between a pharmacy and a record store. “This place has some good food.” He parks the car in a tiny lot across the street and we go in.

A tiny Indian woman with a red jewel on her forehead greets us at the door and seats us in the back. She appears to recognize Anton, but doesn’t say anything. She gives us menus and leaves us alone. I can’t decide what I want here, it all looks so disgusting. Chick peas? They are so gross. I hate these little privately owned restaurants, they all seem to have grease just hanging in the air. It’s so unappetizing. Why couldn’t we go to TGIFridays, or the Olive Garden, or something like that. Why do rich people have to always force themselves to eat such bad food? I’m rich, and I don’t eat this garbage. When the Indian woman returns to take our orders, I just point at some random thing and practically push past her to go to the bathroom. It’s small, and dingy, and unisex.

When I return, Anton says, “We’re going to buy you some new clothes after lunch. I need to be in North Carolina before dark, so we don’t have much time.”

“What’s going on?”

“I have something to show you. We don’t want to be late.”

“What?” I ask, more than a little nervous.

He shakes his head. “Worry about that later. Right now, just eat.” He’s eating something that looks like it has been regurgitated. My food doesn’t look much better. I pick at it, but eat very little. It’s making me feel sick to my stomach, and is too spicy to really enjoy. At least they had real soda.

The conversation though the rest of dinner is icy. Anton is all but silent until we get back into the car. He doesn’t perk up until we get to the mall. At that point, he becomes as giddy as a school girl, running around, holding clothes up to me, ushering me into the dressing room, carefully inspecting me, passing or failing the outfit as a whole and moving on to the next. Watching him play actually brings the first smile to my face all day. He takes me to three shops before he decides I’ll have enough options, and we get back to the road. Anton insisted I walk away when he was at the check out, so I don’t know the total, but he must have come close to the grand he showed me. We load the new clothes into the back seat of the Porsche and Anton makes me go back to change into the outfit he liked best.

I nap most of the afternoon, finally at ease enough to get a little sleep. I only wake up when he changes CD’s, and then around dusk when he tells me we made it to South Carolina. The first billboard I see reads “Black Angus: What vegetarians eat when they cheat.” We exit in some dead town whose name I miss. Broken rock and dead cars are on the street. I see crumbling buildings, litter and shifting shadows. Totally ghetto. “What do you want me to see here?” I ask, my voice more high and nervous than I’d like to be.

Anton looks over at me, his eyes dark. “Do you believe in Heaven and Hell? God and the Devil?”

I shrug. What kind of question is that? “Yeah... I guess.”

“Good,” he says flatly. “Good girl. Never doubt. It is very important.” He says this very gravely in a way that chills my blood. I’m scared to ask again what he wants me to see. We drive along further, until finally, Anton slows the car and points to a woman on my side of the car. She is wearing a neon-pink halter-top that is three sizes too small, with her ample breasts hanging out the sides and stopping just above her belly. Her skirt is so short that I can almost see her underwear. When she sees the car slow down, she turns around and waves to us. “What is she?” Anton asks, glaring at the woman as we pass.

“I... I... a... a hooker?”

He smiles briefly and stamps on the gas. “Exactly, a hooker, a prostitute, a pro, a whore, a ho, a streetwalker, any one of those. She walks the streets so she can get money for heroin. Her addiction makes it so she can’t hold down a job, or at least believes she can’t hold down any job but a blow job. Anyone can fuck, even a junkie.” He pauses and looks over at me. “What do you think of her? Would you ever do something like that? Would you sell your body for a few measly dollars so you could buy drugs?” There is a crazy, absent look in his eyes that makes me afraid I could be in real danger if I don’t answer the question properly.

“N... No,” I say. “That’s disgusting.”

He nods and turns the corner. There is a gathering of hookers along the street, all waving, all whistling and blowing kisses. Anton drives by them slowly. A couple think we’re interested and start walking with the car.

When we are past the group, I ask, “Is that what you wanted me to see?”

“I’m not done,” he snaps, holding out a hand.

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