Tusk

By J. Boyett

One year ago, Britney and Riley survived the onslaught of the monster, Tusk. They lived, but at the moment of their escape Britney disgraced herself.

 

Now Tusk is back, and Britney has a chance at redemption--whether she wants it or not....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saltimbanque Books
• Release date: Oct 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798232615871

J. Boyett

J. Boyett is the author of several novels, such as The Little Mermaid: A Horror Story, Ironheart, and The Unkillables, a zombies-vs.-cavemen opus.

Book preview

One

Britney sat alone in the back of the Starbucks; she saw Phyllis come bustling in but pretended not to, keeping her eyes on her smartphone. She wanted to see if Phyllis would rush straight back to her, to make up for being late, or if she’d stop at the counter to order a drink first. She stopped at the counter first.

Once Phyllis had her drink order in, she came halfway down the length of the store to toodle her fingers at Britney. Britney perked up her head and blinked in surprise like she’d just noticed Phyllis. She let her mouth fall open in exaggerated delight, waved. Phyllis pointed back the way she’d come and mouthed something. Britney sucked at reading lips. Probably Phyllis had said she was going back to the pick-up counter to wait for her drink, since that’s what she did. Her lawyer’s eyes off her, Britney let her attention slump back into her phone.

At last, Phyllis joined Britney at the tiny wobbly table, a venti something in one hand, the other slipping her handbag off her shoulder. So sorry to be late, she cheerfully apologized. Britney shrugged (late? why, I hadn’t even noticed). Although Phyllis was a little heavyish and had some slush-gray mingled in with her copper hair, Britney admired her elegant beige-and-umber pantsuit, her crisp white blouse. She felt self-conscious about her own appearance: raw, freckle-splattered face, lank mousy hair. She’d never been crazy about her looks, even before she’d spent the last year reading colorful descriptions of herself online.

Thanks even for meeting with me at all, said Britney, and lifted her own cup to her mouth before remembering it was empty. That’s how long she’d been waiting.

Phyllis gave her a playfully reprimanding, shush-your-mouth look. "You’re my client—of course I’m going to meet with you. Especially since it had been Phyllis who’d requested this meeting, not Britney. Thank you for meeting me here, instead of at the office."

Yeah, actually, Britney would have liked to know why they were meeting at a Starbucks. Maybe Phyllis didn’t want such a pariah being spotted at her place of business. But probably Phyllis had simply been out running errands, and it was easier for her to drop by this Starbucks than to go all the way back to her office. Later on, in the woods, Britney would wonder if Phyllis hadn’t been in on the whole thing from the beginning, and if meeting at Starbucks instead of the office hadn’t been some clever, lawyerly way to limit or hide her liability. But by then she’d have such big problems that the question wouldn’t seem very interesting or important.

Phyllis was sipping her drink and giving Britney this smile, like they’d been talking a long time and had run out of things to say. Britney squirmed. You said you had, uh. An opportunity?

Phyllis hurriedly gulped down the coffee she’d just drawn into her mouth and nodded vigorously, like she was glad Britney had reminded her. Yes! An interesting opportunity, it sounds like. Kind of mysterious.

She bent over to fish something out of her bag. Britney held herself perched on the uncomfortable wooden chair, elbows on the table and chin resting upon her balled fists. Motionless, so as not to spook this alleged opportunity.

Phyllis placed a manila folder on the tiny tabletop, first having to scootch their cups to the table’s edge. Britney said, Mysterious? Like, mysterious how?

Well. Phyllis drew a sheath of papers out of the folder. Britney slid her gaze over its close-set print and blank spaces to be filled in. Contract stuff. No way she would be able to understand it. It’s for a reality TV show, said Phyllis.

Oh? Britney had a complicated reaction. On the one hand, growing up she’d always wanted to be on TV. And the word TV in her mind called out the answering chime of the word money.

On the other hand, she had been on TV quite a bit this past year. And TV hadn’t been very nice to her. TV was why she couldn’t even get a regular job anymore, couldn’t even go to college without the whole student body having a freakin’ protest. (Well, social media was why, but the original clips had all come from TV.) Why she couldn’t relax in this Starbucks or any other public place, afraid someone would recognize her and bitch her out. Or else tell her how right-on she was, which was even more awkward.

Well, Moesha pointed out, a teensy bit snidely but still with affection, it’s not really TV’s fault—it’s what you were saying on TV. But Britney scowled and made a hissing, dismissive noise—she had no patience for hair-splitting right now.

Phyllis paused, unsure whether she’d imagined the hiss, whether the scowl was meant for her. Britney blushed. Phyllis plowed ahead: I think it sounds like an interesting gig. And potentially lucrative. They wouldn’t tell me exactly how much. But when I asked whether we were talking about at least six figures, I was told definitely yes.

The idea of six figures’ worth of money was like a pool of warm lotion inside, smoothing Britney’s mangled nerves. But she frowned. They wouldn’t tell you exactly how much?

It’s one of those secretive shows. You know the gimmick. The guest appears on the show, and they tell you what the deal is, right there while they’re shooting. They get your reaction on tape, along with your decision-making process—whether you’re going to go along with it, all that.

So, like, a set-up. What show is this?

It’s brand-new. They’re even keeping the title a secret, for now. It’s going to wind up being a mini-series. Just about you, I gather.

If it’s just about me then what’ll they do if they make the offer and I refuse it?

I gather they’re confident that it’s something you’ll say yes to. Anyway, they’re offering five thousand just to go with them and let them make you the offer. You keep that, even if you refuse the rest of the deal.

Go with them where?

Phyllis shook her head. That’s secret, too. ‘An undisclosed location.’ They take you there on a plane.

But so they seem ... you know ... legit?

I looked over the contract. It’s in order.

Britney dropped her eyes to the tabletop, intertwined her fingers before her face and chewed the sides of them. But it could be legitimate, and still be something where the whole point is to embarrass me. Right?

Phyllis kept smiling. "Well. It is reality TV, you know. Reality television doesn’t exactly operate by making people look good."

Britney tried to approximate a wry, worldly-wise grin.

Phyllis leaned forward. "Britney, you hired me, among other things, to represent you and help you negotiate any media opportunities and appearances.... Well, you didn’t hire me, but that’s still my job. Britney had grown savvy enough in the last year to understand that Phyllis threw in this last bit as a reminder that Britney had never been able to pay her a retainer, that Phyllis did all this stuff on a volunteer basis, pro bono, after all the lawyers Britney had approached had brushed her off. (That is, she was pro bono until some money came in for Phyllis to take a cut of.) And this looks like a good opportunity, to me. At the very least it’ll be five thousand dollars. And who knows, maybe it’ll be a chance for you to tell your side of the story. Take control of the narrative. And even if they do make you look bad ... well, not to be blunt, but could the press really be more cruel than it already has been?"

Britney gave a not totally convincing chuckle.

Phyllis broadened her cheerful grin. Listen, said Phyllis, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room for a minute. You look over the contract, and we can discuss it once I get back.

Britney mustered a wan smile as the older woman got up. She’d also grown savvy enough to understand that the invitation to look over the contract was meant to drive home to her how incomprehensible this gobbledygook was, and therefore how much she needed the lawyer. Britney dutifully picked the contract up and glanced listlessly over it. It started to give her a headache, like one of those trippy posters whose images you can only see if you cross your eyes or whatever, which Britney could never get to work for her. She set it aside and stared off into space.

Why should I feel humiliated by this offer? she asked Moesha. The other girl couldn’t explain, either. Neither of them had the vocabulary to express why it should be dehumanizing to have to sell your story to the highest bidder. Britney had grown up with social media, after all. She’d had a Facebook account since the age of nine, the age at which she’d begun devoting more attention to that public avatar, that brand, than to her interior self. By nature she wasn’t given to self-reflection or introspection. That had changed a little bit after the trauma of Tusk Night and the ensuing isolation; even so, if she’d tried to articulate exactly what bothered her about her media plight, she would have said the injustice was that she wasn’t in charge of her own story—not that there was something gross about having to reduce herself down to a story, at all.

She looked around the Starbucks: its green walls, its dark wooden furniture. Well, it looked wooden; naturally it wasn’t real wood. The chairs here were so uncomfortable, the round tables so tiny and rickety; they never quite rested flush to the floor, and even with Phyllis gone there wasn’t really room for the two paper cups plus the contract. Britney had used to go to Sufficient Grounds, an indie coffee shop in Little Rock’s Hillcrest neighborhood: a converted two-story house filled with color and sunlight, where you could lounge in their comfy upholstered chairs. But after Tusk Night the wait staff had started giving her dirty looks and forgetting to take her order. She’d stuck it out defiantly, till one day she’d sat down and the people at the next table had noisily gotten up, so they could get away from this fucking racist homophobe.

Here at Starbucks, the girl at the table next to her was watching the news on her phone. Without