My jaw dropped open as I whipped by head to stare at him. “You’re kidding. That’s really f-ing funny, Jackson Ellis.”
“No, it’s not funny. The fact is, those two songs wouldn’t be part of my concert, wouldn’t be hits, and the royalties wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you. So, it belongs to you.”
I shook my head. “No way. I didn’t earn that, I didn’t do anything. I can’t accept it, seriously.”
“Relax. It’s just a portion of the sales, okay? I won’t go crazy and carry it into album sales when it goes on a record. When I win a Grammy, I won’t cut it in half to share with you.” His eyes twinkled as he teased me. “And, anything else I write it the future, like ‘This Love,’ will be off the table. I won’t be able to work that so easily, because the band helped with the music for those and will in the future. Let me share this little bit with you. It can be the gift that keeps on giving; sales may go up and down and trickle in for years.”
I gaped at him now. “You are delusional. I can’t take the money. Please, stop the account. Do something else with it if you’re so rich you don’t need it.”
His eyes left the road to meet mine and he smiled. “Back at ya.”
I paused at that thought and realized he was right. “Alright, you’re looking at the first official contributor to the pediatric wing at UT hospital. When you start raising money at the concert, the account will be emptied into it, and the fundraising will be off to a big start.”
“If that’s what you want, Doc, it’s up to you. Maybe you’ll decide to take a trip to Fiji in the meantime. You could even take somebody really cool with you.” He winked at me, making my eyes roll toward the heavens.
We spent the next nearly three hours, and a time change to Central zone, singing to every song we randomly flipped to on the radio. It started with a few country ones we knew by heart and turned into a challenge when we hit the scan button. We had to figure out the words to whatever genre or decade popped up on the next channel. Some were hilarious, like finding out he knew *NSYNC backward and forward or that I could sing every word to ‘My Heart Will Go On’ from Titanic. Or, that neither of us knew a single correct word of Lady Gaga, though we thought we did. We completely made up words to an old Ozzy Osbourne song until we were laughing so hard we were crying. By no means could I carry a tune, but I didn’t feel shy singing with him.
He finally shut off the radio forty-five minutes outside of the city and claimed he needed to start conserving his voice while he could. I concluded he didn’t want to take on the Usher song that popped up next and teased him about it.
“So … you’ll be the first female guest to stay overnight,” he said, trying to change the subject.
I grimaced at the familiar theme—he met his many conquests elsewhere and he didn’t spend the night. It was nice to know he kept his home sacred instead of a revolving door.
“Glad your neighbors won’t assume I’m the flavor of the night. I can’t believe you kept the same apartment you’ve had since moving to Nashville after school. No mansion in Brentwood or Franklin yet? You didn’t move over to be neighbors with Tim and Faith?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned at me. “Nah. I like my place, and I’m not home much. My first house purchase was my childhood home, remember? But, I guess there’s more to the apartment situation. It’s a great historic building between Vanderbilt and Music Row with just six units, two on each floor. All my neighbors were at least fifty years old when I moved in, and they’ve always been incredibly nice people. They never treated me any differently when I finally made it big. Kept me grounded, you know? I was still just Neighbor Jack, and they liked to baby me since they were all empty nesters. I got lots of home cooked meals and desserts they just happened to make too much of.
Anyway, last year Mr. Emmett across the hall on my top floor passed away and it was very sad. We all went to the funeral together. Then, I found out the landlord advertised the empty unit as ‘Who will pay the most to be neighbors with Jack Morgan?’ I definitely didn’t want that person to live there. So, I bought the building instead.”
“You bought the building, just like that, eh? I guess it makes sense.”
“Yeah, I wound up remodeling my floor to combine the empty unit with mine, and now I have four bedrooms instead of two, plus a home gym and music room. One of the bedrooms is an office, but you can choose from the other two … or you can sleep with me again. I worry about you having a nightmare.”
I felt myself blush across the cheeks. “I’m sure a spare room is fine.”
His building was breathtaking: centered in a row of similar mansions from decades ago, all transformed to apartments with a common front door entry. It was immaculate dark red brick with ivy growing up the sides and window boxes full of flowers. I loved it immediately.
His renovated top floor was modern but comfortable, a lot like the coach. It had high-end materials, from granite to hardwood to tile, but the cozy colors and soft furniture made it homey. He insisted I use the guest room that shared a wall with his master bedroom so he could hear me if I had a nightmare, but he had also concocted a plan that he hoped may help me sleep better.
“So, I know it’s almost eight-thirty now, and we have a full day tomorrow, but are you interested in a work out?” he asked with suspicious enthusiasm that made me arch a brow at him.
He continued. “The idea I had for maybe helping your nightmares … I don’t know, it may be stupid. But, I thought maybe if you got to pretend to beat the shit out of McCoy again, and again, and again … maybe it would make him lose power over you.” His voice had dropped off as he talked until he began to look embarrassed. “Never mind. It was dumb—”
I cut him off, “No, I’m totally intrigued. Tell me more.”
“I’ll show you.”
He grabbed my hand and led me from where I’d dropped my bag in the guest room, to the far end of the apartment and through a door to his home gym. It was like Candyland! A wall-length mirror lined the back, a flat screen TV hung from the corner, and a treadmill, bike, elliptical, bench, plate weights, a total gym, and yoga mats filled the large space. He could charge membership fees. When my eyes followed his gaze to the far corner of the room, I found what he had in mind. There was a boxing area: a small speed bag on a chain, a huge round punching bag hanging next to it, and a standing one for kickboxing.
My eyes lit up, and he sighed in relief that I didn’t think his idea was crazy. I could already picture taking out my frustration but told him, “I didn’t bring workout clothes.”
“Borrow something,” he stated and pulled me back toward his room where he handed me a stack of clothes I could potentially use from a variety of his drawers. I finally settled on a pair of his boxers that looked like baggy shorts on me, and one of his tanks pulled over the camisole I originally planned to sleep in. I was glad I’d brought my tennis shoes, at least. I knew I looked ridiculous, but overriding that was my need to kick Travis’s ass.
Jackson’s phone rang, and he retreated to his bedroom when I ventured back across the apartment. I stared into the full-wall mirror for a few minutes, studying the fading bruises, purple hues now mixing with green. My eye was almost open now but still puffy, as if I’d been crying for days. I felt the back of my head for the slight bump as I pulled my hair into a high ponytail. I traced the pink line on my neck, summoning my anger and resentment.
I started with the speed bag, lightly tapping it, getting the feel and rhythm. I picked the smaller of the two sets of boxing gloves that I found in the corner and slid them in place. They were still too big, but I didn’t care. I moved over to the punching bag and began to jab at it with rights and lefts slowly, remembering the proper form I’d learned in aerobics class. My back ached and my knee was sore as I moved around, but not enough to stop me. I wanted my control back.
I tried a few hooks and uppercuts, slowly losing myself to the memory of Travis: that stupid hat hiding his face, his obnoxious comments from ni
ght one, the way he spoke to the service people, and the way he screamed at his mom and called her terrible names. And, of course, the assault. The menacing look, the spit flying from his mouth, the brute force, the names he called me, the physical pain, the sheer helplessness.
I beat the crap out of the bag now; sweat beaded all over me and my face turned pink. I hit it over and over. It reminded me of Travis hitting my face, and I let the anger give me power. The longer I let the thoughts overwhelm me, the more I realized how mad I was at myself, too. There were so many signs! How could I overlook all of them, give him the benefit of the doubt repeatedly? How could my judgment ever be trusted?
Now, I banged the hell out of the bag, sweat poured off me, my face flamed red. I hit it so hard that my body hurt, but I kept on. That was it. I was angry with myself more than him. He didn’t take my power; I handed it to him on a silver platter like some naïve twit. I turned my rear toward the standing bag and kicked back as hard as I could, and then to the side as well. I stepped back and forth now punching and then kicking with all my might. I vowed to myself never to let it happen again. I would be more vigilant, less tolerant.
“Never again, never again, never again.” I repeated my new mantra as my punches and kicks slowly lost their power, and sweat made my borrowed clothes cling to me. I still didn’t stop until I finally kicked and missed the bag. I fell to my knees where I was too exhausted to get up. I had no idea how long I’d been attacking the bags, but it must have been a good while feel spent. My body ached, and I knew I’d done too much.
A sound interrupted my thoughts. I glanced up to the doorway and saw Jackson hovering, hanging each muscular arm on the doorframe as he leaned in.
“That was impressive. I checked on you a few times. You could have a future in boxing if the whole PT thing doesn’t work out.” He was grinning at me, but I was too drained emotionally and physically to smile back.
“I’m pretty sure it was ugly to watch,” I said, still taking in extra breaths to soothe my lungs, “but, from inside my head, I really kicked ass. His and mine—we both needed it.”
He walked toward me with curiosity in his eyes but didn’t probe into thoughts he knew were raw. He held out a hand and easily pulled me to my feet. “I hope it helps, Doc, I really do. You are one of the strongest people I know, and I need you to believe that.”
I sidestepped around him to the water cooler and poured a cup, gulping it down. I wanted to believe it. I would see with time. The workout had certainly invigorated me for the moment.
“You got a shower in this dump?” I teased, following him back down the hall.
“Sure. But, I have to admit, I never realized my boxers and tank top could look so … damn hot.” He trailed his gaze down my body, and I instantly turned a deeper shade of red, though I didn’t think my face could flush any further after the work out.
I crashed hard after my shower and a half hour of ESPN on Jack’s couch. I barely remembered making my way to my bed, but I did sleep through the night without any kind of dream.
Chapter 24
The doorbell woke me at nine o’clock, and I ventured from my room to the kitchen. Jackson dished up a delicious smelling casserole onto plates, looking domestic.
“Sausage, egg, and cheese courtesy of Mrs. Baker on the second floor,” he explained as he pushed a plate toward me at the kitchen bar. “Said she knew I’d have a bare kitchen after being gone for so long, and she didn’t want my guest to starve. I think she was fishing for answers as to who you were.”
“Mmm,” I sighed after a bite. “Let her keep on fishing. This is wonderful. I slept great, by the way. Thank you again for the boxing idea.”
He studied me to be sure I wasn’t fibbing and then let his shoulders relax.
“So, my dad’s coming in about an hour. He’s going to tag along with us today because I haven’t seen him in so long. I think he gets lonely out there.”
My stomach quivered, making me aware of my anxiety to meet his dad. I was lost in my nervousness, twirling my fork on my plate, when I noticed he’d stopped eating and sat very still. I glanced up at him when he let out a forced breath.
“Remember when I said one day I’d tell you the reason why my music changed a lot after the first album? I should do that now, before you meet my dad, so you know the whole story.”
He rose and went to the bookshelves in the living room while I greedily finished my food. I wanted to be ready for this highly anticipated story; my curiosity peaked to a completely new level. He brought back two photo albums and set them between us on the bar as I moved our dishes. He closed his eyes briefly, seeming to gather his thoughts.
“You already guessed about ‘Angel Wings’ and how it connected to all of this. I wrote it for my mom.”
He flipped open the first album, and there was a picture of him as a newborn in the arms of a lovely brunette woman. She had clearly given him her curly hair and perfect smile, but she had brown eyes that sparkled with life instead of his blue. I instantly smiled to see the adoration she showed in the picture and subsequent pages where she rocked her baby, read to him, spooned him baby food, and bathed him. In profile, I could see him smile softly, though his eyebrows furrowed as if in pain. Instinctively, I reached out and placed a hand over his to comfort him.
“She was amazing. I’m sure many people say that about their moms, but she really was the best. She was so patient, so kind to everyone, such a hard worker. As a teenager, I learned she had three miscarriages before me, and of course, I was an only child, so she gave me an abundance of love and attention. I knew I was lucky, and so did Dad, that we had her in our lives. Anyhow, she got sick when I was a freshman in high school. It was a huge blow to us— how our perfect little slice of the world turned upside down so quickly. It took the doctors weeks after she showed symptoms to find the cancer. It was ovarian. They gave her six to nine months to live.”
He choked up for a moment, and I gripped his hand now, trying to take his pain away physically. He slowly gained composure as he flipped more pages in the album, where I saw his family on vacations, at his sporting games, playing around the farm. I could picture their idyllic family, so happy and innocent until illness suddenly appeared.
He opened the second album, where he looked to be high school age. Undeniably a handsome kid, though he was too skinny, and his hair was buzzed short. His mom blew out candles on a cake, while he played guitar next to her, I assumed serenading her with “Happy Birthday.” Tears flooded my eyes, and I tried to blink them back.
“She was a fighter, though; they didn’t know that. She beat it. She got well after surgery and two years of horrible chemotherapy. She had a clean PET scan, she felt better. She was one for the books. She always said, ‘I didn’t fight to bring you into this world all those years just to leave you now. I want to see you graduate, get married, and meet my grandkids. I’ll fight for that, Jack, I promise you, I’ll fight ’til the end.’” He wiped one tear away, and then another.
The next page showed him and his parents next to his first car and another of them with his letterman jacket and a trophy. Tears silently slid down my face now. I didn’t bother trying to stop them.
“She did, Lex, she fought. She’s the bravest person I know. During those two years, moving in and out of the hospital, she never complained, she never fussed, cursed God, or asked why. She never cried when I was around, but I would sometimes show up at the hospital unannounced and catch her with puffy red eyes while she looked at these albums.”
I nodded and traced a finger over the next picture, a huge smile on her face while she blew out candles on yet another cake for a birthday they never thought she’d see. She was still beautiful and full of life, though very thin and pale in the last several photos.
“The beginning of my senior year, the fatigue returned, and she lost weight rapidly. The scan showed metastasis in her lungs. It was an extremely poor diagnosis, and she really tried to have courage again. She was exhausted this time around
and spent most of the year in the hospital. So did Dad and I. She used to joke and say we should sell the farm and move into her room to save money, since we were always there. Then, she began to insist I not come around. I’d quit football, and she was so angry with me. She wanted me to keep on living and experience all the things I could. But, I felt so guilty. How could I run around with friends and be your typical teen when she was so sick? What if she died and I hadn’t been there to see her in days? We would always have to negotiate. She would insist I go to the pep rally on a Friday, but I would insist to stay with her and play checkers on Saturday.”
He took a shaky breath as he turned the album page and ran his finger over a picture of him playing checkers with her at the bedside table in the hospital, both smiling at the camera, as if they weren’t facing her death. I couldn’t even begin to know what to say, so I stayed quiet and drank in the photos and his story, urging him on with a squeeze of his hand.
“The only time she ever acted like she might not live to be a hundred was when she made me promise to finish college before pursuing music. She supported me and loved to hear me play, but she said in today’s world, I needed to know more about the business, and I needed to earn respect academically as well as musically. I barely fought her on it; no way could I deny her what little she asked of me. She helped me fill out college applications, and we had a small celebration when I registered at MTSU. She came home for a week or two every few months, but she always had a set back and had to return. The lung cancer was much more painful, and she tried so hard not to take medications, until we had to force her. It was horrible, to watch the most vibrant woman you’ve ever known fade away before your eyes.”
Another tear escaped his eyelid and about ten more slid down my face, forcing me to use my breakfast napkin to blot them. I couldn’t believe how much he went through at a young age. When most boys were out trying to be as crazy as possible, he was living in a hospital room, afraid each day could be her last. I felt so stupid for complaining about a divorce.
Muse: ( Groupie Volume 2 of 2) Page 14