American Outlaw - Jesse James [95]
“Gotta go,” I mumbled. “See you soon, Tyler.”
Slowly, I drove home in my truck, nearly overwhelmed.
That night over dinner, passing the salad bowl toward me, Janine asked, “How’s work going?”
“All right . . . next week, we’re going to turn a Chevy Suburban into a wedding chapel,” I told her. “We’re going to head to Vegas and find a couple to have a real wedding inside of it.”
“You guys have the wildest ideas,” said Janine. “Who’s gonna officiate?”
I grinned proudly. “You’re looking at him.”
Janine busted up laughing. “You? How is that possible, Jesse?”
“The Universal Life Ministry. You can get a license over the Internet. They let anybody be an ordained minister, these days.”
“Apparently,” Janine said, arching her eyebrows.
Things weren’t always tense between us—they were more like . . . schizophrenic. Janine was a personality who thrived on fighting, but like any good fighter, unpredictability was her greatest asset. That week, as we transformed the Suburban into a wedding-chapel-on-wheels, she came to visit me on the set several times, the very picture of a loving wife.
“Well, hey there,” I said, pleased to see her. Her face and hair were immaculately made up. “Sweetie,” I said, kissing her on the temple, “why is it the only time I see you around my garage is when we’re filming?”
“Oh, I don’t find the camera,” Janine explained, coolly. “The camera finds me.”
Of course, the guys on the camera crew were always psyched to see a real live porn star there—photographing busted catalytic converters day in and day out can take a toll on any man. So she generally got her wish, a behind-the-scenes interview, even though obviously none of the footage would ever be used for the show.
“Your crew is so imaginative,” Janine said, wandering around the shop, gazing in at our mobile marriage shack. “Gosh, I wish we could have been married in a cool little contraption like this, don’t you?”
“Yeah, it would have been a bonding experience. Maybe it would have made you nicer to your husband,” I said, tickling her side playfully.
“Jesse!” Janine shouted. “Don’t tickle!” She punched me on the shoulder several times, laughing.
“Hey,” I said, smiling tightly, “you hit damn hard. Stop, okay?”
“Well, don’t tickle,” Janine said. She shot me a look. “You bring it on yourself, Jesse.”
We stared at each other for a moment, on the brink of hostility.
“So,” she said, sighing, changing the subject, “when are you going to Vegas, to become, like, a minister?”
“Tomorrow.” I drew her closer to me, lay my forehead up against hers. “You feel like coming with me?”
“Of course I do,” Janine said, looking wistful. “But I can’t. I have engagements this whole weekend.”
“Well, all right,” I said, secretly a bit relieved. “Tell you what. I’ll try not to gamble away the farm while I’m there.”
“You’re funny,” Janine said, kissing me lightly on the lips. “Look, I should go. I’m dancing tonight. I won’t be home until late.”
The crew and I worked until late in the evening, putting the finishing touches on the Suburban. When we were done, we’d installed a set of gull-wing rear doors, a stained-glass roof, and an intricate pipe organ. We were ready to marry in style.
I drove home, dead tired, looking forward to grabbing a couple of hours of much-needed sleep before I rose early in the morning to drive to Las Vegas. I rolled into our driveway, slammed the door of my truck behind me, and trudged wearily upstairs, falling into bed without even showering.
I woke up several hours later to the feeling of my wife straddling my body in bed.
“Fucking bastard,” Janine mumbled. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol. Her eyes squinted heavily.
“Huh?” I asked, still half-asleep.
“You fucking bastard,” Janine repeated. Then, cocking back her fist, she punched me right in the eye, hard.
“What the hell?” I roared, pushing her off me.
“You took . . .” she mumbled, falling to the side of me.
“Janine!” I cried, leaping to my feet. I clutched my injured eye, my adrenaline racing. “What the fuck