American Outlaw (29 page)

I didn’t tell her about the prenup just then. That came a couple days later.

“Look, don’t take it personally,” I suggested, embarrassed.

“I’m trying not to,” Janine said. She forced a smile, but I could tell she was steaming.

“The thing is,” I said, shamefaced, “I talked to my lawyers about it . . .”

“You talked to your
lawyers
. That’s just great. That’s just
amazing.
”

“And they said that it’s smarter to keep our finances separate. You owe the government a whole lot of money, babe. And I have a whole lot of money, now. So if we put our money together, they can come take it.”

“I
get
that,” Janine said. “I’m not dumb, Jesse.”

I drew her closer to me. “Do you still love me?”

She sighed. “Yeah, of course I still love you. I’m just . . . a little hurt, that’s all.”

I said nothing.

“I thought you were going to take
care
of me,” she said. “I thought we were going to be a team.”

“We are going to be a team,” I promised.

“So why this
prenup
?”

“I’m real sorry,” I said, again. “I just . . . it’s gotta be this way, and I don’t know what else to say.”

“Oh, fine,” she huffed. She folded her arms across her chest, and stuck her tongue out at me. “You meanie.”

“I’ll make it up to you, okay?” I said. “We’ll get married in style.”

When Karla and I got married, we were still kind of financially struggling. We’d kept the event real small. This time, however, I wanted to go big. I rented out an immense church and invited everyone we knew. The Discovery Channel decided to record the ceremony for posterity. It was going to be a real California-style fiesta; a coming-out party for the couple made in Biker Heaven: the Porn Star and the Outlaw.

A week before the wedding, Janine and I met with the pastor of the church to discuss the specifics of the ceremony.

“Have you given any consideration to your vows, son?” the pastor asked me pleasantly. He was a gentle-looking old man, with glasses and a well-trimmed white beard.

“I’m gonna make them up as I go along,” I confided to him.

“Are you sure?” He looked concerned.

“I’m kidding.” I laughed. “I have something written out. It’s pretty standard.” I squeezed Janine’s hand. “I’m just happy to be tying the knot.”

“How about you, my dear?” The pastor turned his head toward Janine. “Have you thought about what you might say?”

“I don’t know,” Janine said, sulking.

“Would you like some suggestions?” the pastor asked. “I’ve heard many lovely speeches in my days . . .”

“All I want to know,” Janine interrupted, “is, what am I getting out of this?”

The pastor stared at her. “How do you mean?”

“Well
he
”—she hooked her thumb at me—“made me sign a prenup.”

The pastor turned his head toward me, as if he were watching a tennis match.

I nodded. “It’s true.”

“So,” Janine continued doggedly, “
I
would just like to know what
I’m
supposed to get if this thing doesn’t work out.”

The pastor looked aghast. Janine tapped her fingers on the table. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“God has a plan, my dear,” he managed, finally.

Sitting there that afternoon in the back room of the church, I knew that something was up. A tiny little voice inside of me was pleading,
get out while you still can!
But I was too stubborn to heed the warning.

As usual, I would learn the hard way.

12
 

We made our preparations to marry. In honor of the occasion, my wife-to-be tattooed a message onto her left shoulder blade: “I Do,” in curvy script, surrounded by a large red heart. I responded in kind, inscribing her name in large block letters on the back of my left hand.

You know that expression, “I know it like the back of my hand?” It makes less sense now to most people, because they spend all day staring at computer screens and talking on the telephone. But for people who do manual labor for a living, that phrase still has its full meaning. Because of the kind of work I do, I had to look at it a thousand times a day:
Janine.

The day of our wedding, we slipped ourselves into our nicest duds and readied to receive all of our friends and family at the chapel. But when I showed up at the church parking lot, a surprise lay in store for me: amazingly, my dad had showed up at my wedding.

“Come by to pay your last respects?” I asked him, in a mildly cold tone.

“You invited me, didn’t you?” My dad gave me his hurt face. His beard had gone full white, but it was well-trimmed, and his eyes were vibrant. He looked handsome for an older guy.

“I invited you to my first wedding, too,” I said. “But you didn’t show up to that.”

“Jess,” my dad said, “give me a break, why don’t you? This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Say, who’s this little guy?” he said, turning to Jesse Jr., who was dressed up in a tux.

“Your grandson,” I said. “He’s five. Nice to meet him after all these years?”

“It certainly is,” my dad said, ignoring my tone. He picked up Jesse Jr. and held him in his arms. “Well, hello, young man, hello at last.”

My dad didn’t fool me for a second. Now that I was a success, he was showing up at my wedding for the same reason he’d come to my football games in high school: he wanted the world to know which tree the apple fell from. Let him preen for the crowd, I wasn’t going to fall for it.

“That was real nice,” I said, prying my confused son from his grandfather’s arms. “But I gotta get married now. Tell you what, we’ll see you in five years or so, okay?”

My dad just shook his head. “If you say so,” he said. Then he laughed. “I sure hope that wife of yours understands what she’s getting into.”

An hour later, Janine and I exchanged our vows. It was all easy as pie. We kissed up on stage in front of two hundred cheering people, danced the first dance, real slow and pretty. Just like my dad had done so many years earlier, I’d gotten myself hitched a second time. I’d snagged a new wife, delivered to my kids a brand-new stepmom. We were just another typical, fractured American family: held together with new love, hope, and masking tape.

——

My kids seemed to like Janine, cautiously. On the occasions when they stayed over at my place, Janine would bake brownies with Chandler and pick out clothes with her, or snuggle up with Jesse Jr. and play pretend, read him bedtime stories.

“Have you ever seen this book, Jesse,
Curious George
?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I
just
found it over at my old house. I used to read this when I was a little girl, just about your age!” Janine smiled. “Would you like me to read it to you? It’s about a silly little monkey.”

Jesse Jr. nodded, pleased. “Monkeys have
tails.
”

I was certainly happy for any help I could get with the kids. My crazy work schedule continued to wreak havoc on my life. It wasn’t enough to have a secretary at West Coast Choppers anymore: I had to hire a personal assistant, Audrey, just to keep up with all my obligations.

“
Men’s Fitness
is requesting to do a photo shoot with you.”

“Well, tell them no.”

“I already did,” Audrey said. “They’re insistent; they said they’ll pay good money. They’re even offering discounted ad space on the inside back cover. What do you say?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” I considered. “What else do I have to do this week?”

“You’ve got a six-day build for
Monster Garage,
and then you’re volunteering at Long Beach Poly on Sunday, doing something called”—she consulted her book—“a backyard build. Plus, you need to complete Kid Rock’s bike for his birthday, how far along are you on that?”

“Behind.”

“Well, step it up, we can’t move his birthday, now can we?” she said. “Oh, and you’re committed to do a
GQ
event on Saturday evening.”

“Great,” I groaned. “Another calm week.”

“Exactly,” Audrey agreed. “It won’t get truly crazy until the holidays.”

“Look, do me a favor,” I said. “Cancel the
GQ
thing.”

“But why?” she asked.

“I have to do something with my wife.”

“Bring her to the
GQ
party! You’re sure to have a good time.”

“Can’t,” I said, regretfully. “Janine works weekends.”

My new wife, the retired porn star, was still stripping occasionally. I’d told her there was no need anymore—she didn’t need to earn her own money, we were in this together—but she just patted me on the head dismissively. Janine still loved a crowd. She fed off of their attention and acknowledgment; when she was up on stage, working a bunch of starstruck men, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world. Janine had first posed for
Penthouse
at the age of eighteen; the adult business was what she knew. She was going to keep on performing no matter what I had to say. And this weekend, she had a gig at the Spearmint Rhino in Torrance.

When you compared it to other L.A. clubs, the Spearmint Rhino actually came off as kind of a winner. Jumbo’s Clown Room hired all the ugly girls. Cheetah’s and the Seventh Veil were straight-up Armenian mafia joints. And Bob’s Classy Lady in Van Nuys was not so classy. The Rhino, at the very least, lacked a lunch buffet.

“I respect this place,” I told Janine, when we’d filed in through the back door and began to make ourselves at home in the dressing room. “It’s kind of civilized.”

“Huh?” Janine said, distracted, toying with her eyeliner. “What are you talking about?”

“I feel at home here, kind of. I don’t feel like, well, killing myself. That’s all.” Experimentally, I dragged my feet on the synthetic-fibered strip-bar carpeting. A small puff of dust rose up around my ankles, then settled. “Listen, do you need anything?”

“Yes. Be a good boy and get me a glass of vodka, please.”

“Vodka martini?” I asked. “Vodka cranberry?”

“A
glass
of
vodka,
” Janine repeated, pronouncing every word deliberately. “Be quick. Go, go, go.”

A few minutes later, I was back. “Listen, that guy behind the bar gave me one hell of a funny look . . .”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” Janine interrupted, snatching the drink out of my hand. “Now, leave me alone for a second. I need to get my head together before they call me out on stage.”

Just then, though, we heard the club DJ bellow into his microphone.

“
Ladies
and
gentlemen,
let’s give it up for our main attraction tonight, a very SEXY lady . . .”

“Oh, fuck me,” Janine moaned. “I’m not even goddamn made up all the way!”

“She’s a Penthouse Pet and a Vivid Girl . . . a mainstream music video vixen, and a close personal friend of Jenna Jameson . . . and hoo boy, I’m talking
personal
!”

Boorish laughter boomed through the club.

“Time for that vodka,” she declared. “Down the hatch.”

“People, let’s put our hands together and give a warm Rhino welcome to the hottest piece of ass in three states—
JANINE
!!”

“Hold it, honey,” I said, “don’t you want to wait until . . .”

Shushing me impatiently, Janine brought the glass to her lips, and tipped her head straight back. I stared, horrified, as I watched her throat piston back and forth, until every last drop was swallowed.

“Ahhh.”
Janine slammed the glass on the table, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She shook her head, shuddering. “That was just what I needed.”

My mouth hung open.
What in the hell?

“What are
you
looking at?” Janine laughed. “Stand back or step aside, dammit! It’s time to dance.”

Pushing her way past me, Janine clipped briskly out of the dressing room, her slim, exquisite body clad only in spike heels and an expensive bra-and-panty set. Her theme song, Blink 182’s
“What’s My Age Again?” blared from the speakers, and from the appreciative roar of the crowd, I gathered that she’d made it up on stage. I hung back, not really interested in taking in the spectacle. After all, I’d have her later, at home—this performance was for the schmucks who had to pay for the privilege of watching.

Fifteen minutes later, Janine strode furiously into the dressing room, looking incensed.

“What the FUCK?”

“What are you yelling at me for?” I snapped.

“I just
killed
out there, and you didn’t even catch it. Why weren’t you
out
there?” she demanded.

“I didn’t realize you needed me by your side every instant.”

“I don’t!” Janine said. “But for some reason, I thought you might want to watch your
wife
dance on stage. Are you ashamed of me, Jesse?”

I didn’t say anything. Instead I considered her question. Maybe I
was
ashamed. Part of me had been really into the fact that she’d been a porn star—it sure impressed the average guy on the street. But now I had to deal with the reality of the situation: having a porn star or a stripper for a wife meant the woman you shared a home with got naked in front of other people. And I wasn’t really sure I wanted that, to be honest.