Читать книгу Just Try to Stop Me - Gregg Olsen - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

Brenda Nevins looked into the tiny lens of the laptop’s camera. She tilted her head in the light, trying to find the most flattering position. For her, it was all about finding the right angle. A little lift of her head and a very slight tilt made her look a few pounds lighter. She wasn’t fat, of course. God no. She had the best body a good diet, prison exercise, and a skillful surgeon could create.

She fiddled with the top of her blouse, opening an extra button to show Dr. Fournier’s handiwork. She thought back to the day she’d transformed herself with the insurance money. She’d picked Dr. Fournier out of dozens of well-known cosmetic surgeons. He was based in Orange County, California, but that wasn’t a problem. Not only did she have the money, Brenda liked the idea of achieving physical perfection with the help of a man who’d likely worked on film stars. His assistant, Merle, led her into his overly chilled white marble and stainless-steel consultation office. A Twin Peaks TV show poster hung in a prominent location by the door. The art was meant to be sardonic, but Brenda saw it as further proof that her breasts were about to be placed into some very capable hands. He probably worked on one of those television stars. She couldn’t remember any of their names, but they were famous.

That’s all that mattered.

Dr. Fournier was in his fifties, though he was using all the tricks at his disposal to hang on to a younger appearance. He had a waxy-smooth complexion and eyes that indicated a recent lift. He wore his hair longish for a man of his age. Worse, a slight kink along the lower run of his wavy hair indicated he wore it in a small ponytail. Though thankfully not on the day they’d met. No matter what she said to him, his facial expressions vacillated somewhere along the spectrum between surprised and slightly astonished.

“I want all eyes on me,” she said.

“You don’t need larger breasts for that,” the doctor said. “You’re near perfection now.”

Near had been the operative word. Near wouldn’t do it. Not even close. She’d done everything she could to get out of the almost grave-deep rut she’d been in. She’d done the unthinkable. And she was glad to have done it.

“I like to improve myself,” she said. “Near perfection indicates there’s room for improvement.”

“All right. Did my assistant Lee help you with the sizers?”

“Yes, she did.” Brenda thumbed through the doctor’s “boob book” and pointed to one of the many success stories, a twenty-eight-year-old from La Jolla named Sherin. “I’ve decided anything less than a D cup would be disappointing.”

The doctor made a slight face, though it was hard to discern what response he was trying to convey.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It could impact your lifestyle. Are you a runner, for example?”

“No,” she said. “Not a runner. I move slow enough to make sure that I’m not a blur. I want to be seen.”

Thinking back and somewhat caught up in the memory, there was more irony than the Twin Peaks poster, from that encounter with Dr. Fournier. She was now a runner. And while Brenda Nevins craved the spotlight, she did not want to be found.

She checked her makeup, pushed RECORD, and started talking.

“Hi everyone. It’s me. Brenda Nevins. God, do I even need to introduce myself? You know me by sight, don’t you? And if you don’t, well then I guess you’ll find out why someone has directed you here. So, here goes. I’ll be video blogging from time to time and checking my stats for viewing to make sure that I’m keeping your interest. I mean, why wouldn’t you be captivated by me and how I’m getting along after poor Janie’s death? Janie was like a bottle opener for a twist top. Useful—no girl wants to break a nail opening a beer—but ultimately if you can snag a man you don’t need to open anything on your own. Except maybe . . .” she gave the camera a come-hither smile, sure that she had her viewer hooked in that sexy train-wreck way she’d imagined her show. “You know what I mean.”

Her eyes wandered over the screen as she tried to maintain a kind of newscasters’ approach, facing the camera and yet not being completely zombie eyed. She wanted to look alert and sexy.

“Okay, guys,” she carried on, “today I want to talk about Janie Thomas. Remember her from the last video? She’s dead now—and I know I might get some haters after me, but honestly, I did the world a favor. Janie was a complete loser. A total bore. She was all over me because I gave her some attention. If you’re thinking about sex, then that was part of it. But really, not that much. Janie liked me because of how I made her feel. I listened to her pathetic backstory. It was blah, blah, blah. Poor me. Sad me. Lonely me. Man, was that girl messed up. And, yeah, she was in charge of me and the other inmates. Honestly, I don’t get our country half the time. They have someone like Janie bossing around someone like me. Really? Really? Who can get the job done? Me. Who can be ruthless to move the needle in the direction that makes sense? Me. Not her. Not her at all. Oh God, all she could do was whine about her childhood, her husband, and her son. She couldn’t wring one ounce of joy from her pathetic existence. Her husband didn’t pay any attention to her. And yes, Erwin Thomas, if you are watching—and I know you will watch—Janie knew all about you and that woman that you’ve been seeing. I wonder if Sandra Sullivan’s husband knows about you too.”

She paused as though she’d spoken out of turn and was embarrassed.

“Oops, my bad,” she said. “I guess he knows now. I told Janie to tell him, but she was too weak. I can’t imagine just sitting back and letting something just happen to you. Pretending to be passive and unaware is fine as a strategy until you dig in and plan your attack. Janie never got the memo on that. She just kept hoping things would get better. Hoping is for losers. I’ve known that since I was twelve. Hoping is what you do when you have no power to do anything at all.”

Brenda stopped to think. Janie was gone. Her husband had been trashed. Now, son Joe was about to feel the betrayal of a mother who’d been sucked into a deadly game—a game that she’d lost.

“How she agonized over filling out Joe’s college entrance papers, including his essay. What was it? Oh yes, now I remember. ‘Living Authentically When Others Pull the Strings.’ Just wow. Really. How anyone with the flimsiest B average could write something so close to the bone would be beyond me. Janie was so worried that you’d get found out, Joe. She thought she was helping you and, if you ask me, you were lazy enough to let her do the heavy lifting. She did that for you. For your father. And what did she have for herself? Nothing, that’s what. You’d think that a kindred spirit like me would have been what she’d been looking for all her life. You think she found me? That’s a big laugh. I found her.”

Brenda tilted her head back and rolled her shoulders to release some tension. She returned her gaze to the lens.

“In some ways I miss her,” she said. “A little. I really do. She could rub out the soreness in my neck better than my last lover. Janie tried so hard. She wanted to please me. God, she tried. Kind of funny when I think about it. As if I’d ever care about her. And, get this, the irony of the whole thing was that she thought she was in charge of me. That out of the mess she’d made of her life, having the keys to the cellblock made her think she was in control. I pulled the strings. I did. I always have.

“That’s all for now. More later. I promise. Probably should have a name for my show here, don’t you think? I’ll think on that. You too. Use the comments feature below. And if you know something nasty about someone, please post it here.”

Like a seasoned YouTuber, Brenda pointed a lacquered nail downward to indicate the Comments field. A pause to make her point, and then she turned away from the camera. The screen went to a checkerboard block of other Internet distractions.