Born Savages - Cora Brent Page 0,4

spent a big chunk of your honor when you appropriated my sole pair of Manolo Blahnik’s and broke the left heel.”

“You’ve a memory like an elephant. That was years ago. I apologized. I swear I still have some honor remaining. Consider it yours.”

“Does it have a name?”

“What, you mean the show?”

“Yes, I mean the show. What do they plan on calling it?”

“Born Savages.”

I should have swallowed the pills with at least one mouthful of water. I can feel every centimeter of their slow slide. For a second they pause. I imagine they are caught somewhere close to my heart.

“Clever,” I cough. “Who spent years getting an expensive degree for the right to think that up?”

“I think it’s cute. It works. I told you who’s producing it, right? Gary Vogel. He’s behind all the classier projects, the ones broadcast on the Biz Network that are centered around real names, not these cheesy game shows that cast common folk nobodies. He’s got the Kingston sisters signed on to live on a goat farm in Vermont during shearing season. Stop laughing! It will be quite artistic from what I hear. And get this. Gary happens to the producer for Bastion Brats.”

I groan. “You shouldn’t have reminded me. That thing is a tawdry disaster.”

“It’s one of the highest rated shows in the country. Wait, didn’t you used to be friends with Bitty Bastion like a million years ago in grade school? Before her exotic journey into twelve rounds of rehab, that is. Anyway, Bitty and Becky already have their own talk shows and the rest are swimming in more offers than they can keep track of. If those moon-faced morons can get that far, think of what we can do.”

“I’ll bet Gary told you that.”

“Does it matter?” She sounds excited again.

When Brigitte was a little girl she used to bounce maniacally on her toes whenever she got nervous or excited. It was endearing then. I picture her doing the same thing in her dumpy apartment. It’s still endearing.

“So you’re in, right Ren? I knew you wouldn’t hang us out to dry. Ava’s such a pessimist. She was terrified to even ask you.”

Once I say it there’s no taking it back. “Just the five of us, right? No other Savages.”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “What other Savages could there possibly be? We’re the only ones anyone is interested in.”

“Okay.”

“Clarify that ‘okay’, please.”

“You know you’ve got me, Bree. I won’t help you with Monty though.”

“Monty will be easy.”

“Monty is the opposite of easy.”

“Trust me. I’ll have Monty signed and sealed before you can say the word Arizona.”

Outside a siren wails and then surges into the distance toward some unknown disaster. “Arizona.”

The word brings out strange feelings in me. Of a place, of a time, of a boy….

“What other Savages could there possibly be?”

The question has haunted me long before my sister ever casually uttered it.

CHAPTER TWO

OZ

In this group two, are beginners and two are not. The woman worries me. She blinks weirdly fast and chews on the inside of her mouth while casting quick glances at the man beside her. They’re a couple, plainly still in that early uncertain phase. She’s too freaking eager to please him. It’s obvious to me that she’s not the underground type of girl. She’s the kind that breaks a nail flipping the tab of a beer can. I can do that; sort women out with ease. I’m almost always right.

The other pair is a father/son set from Nashville who tell me they’ve been caving a handful of other times in these rich Smoky Mountains. They are fine. They are the eager, appreciative types that I love guiding through the caves.

The woman – Leah is her name – grunts as she struggles through the small break in the rock. We’re trying to reach a cavernous room filled with complex formations, a caver’s paradise. But we have to hold on a minute because Leah’s plentiful tits don’t like the narrow pass. She shimmies a few inches deeper into the rock and grunts again.

“Fuck,” she spits and immediately seems alarmed that such a foul syllable came from her mouth.

The father and son titter just inside the room but Leah’s boyfriend looks mad. He throws her a scornful glare.

Right then and there I know what he’s about and I don’t like him. He’s one of those self-righteous bastards. You know the type, hugging his moral superiority like a security blanket or his mother’s left nipple. Meanwhile I’d bet my last bag