When they figured out who he was, they called my mother in to collect his things. She wasn’t supposed to identify him, and there was no official need for her to, but through a mistake, she saw Dad’s mutilated body.
That explained the closed coffin, and why our mother became . . . distant.
“I’m sorry to hear he died, Lauren.” Jackson took both of my hands. “And your mother?”
My mother and father had a rare relationship I thought existed only in old movies. Mom said she knew as soon as she saw my father’s gray eyes through his outdated, wide-rimmed, black glasses, that she would love him even after her last breath.
She described the tall, scrawny, odd-looking teen with boyish features as unique. He refused to call Mom by her given name, Lise. Instead, he called her “Ginger,” for her long, curly, reddish-brown hair. She’d often say, “Your father had no imagination.” Sometimes, she would call him “Moppy,” based on his curly, brown hair, to annoy him.
We always heard about how Dad pined after Mom, and how he grabbed her attention by fighting some guy he thought she liked. He would boast proudly, while she would shake her head. She often said Dad was the jealous type, but a great protector.
He was ruled by his passions; they both were. They loved each other, maybe too much, and my father’s death ripped Mom apart.
She couldn’t cope afterward. She became withdrawn, and eventually, unavailable to my brother and me, before finally falling into a deep depression. Nothing would shake her out of it. Blake and I repeatedly told her we loved her, unconditionally, and her family was there for her. She told us she loved us, but couldn’t control the pain she felt without my father.
Most often, she couldn’t sleep and didn’t eat, and her body was frail and thin. A couple times Blake and I found her passed out on the floor from taking pills. The first time, Blake hid it from the family, so she wouldn’t get in trouble. The second time, I found her collapsed over the toilet, barely breathing. I called for help.
Ashley and Mom’s brother, James, decided to hire a caregiver to watch over her. Mamaw’s a deeply spiritual woman, and wanted Mom to attend a special church service to “get the demon out that tormented her soul.”
“It is not’ing but the devil. Satan be gone!” Mamaw had shouted, as she put her church oil on Mom’s forehead one night.
It didn’t work.
We all tried our best to help Mom return to her old self. But, one rainy night, she snapped, convinced she saw my dad walking outside. She ran out of the house, stumbling over wet field grass. We saw glimpses of her hair, and followed the sound of crackling twigs made by her urgent footsteps as we caught up to her.
She shouted my father’s name. “Paul! I know that’s you! I love you! Please, don’t leave me again!” Then she collapsed.
When Blake lifted her limp body, I looked ahead. I saw nothing but shadows around the trees.
After that night, her mental state worsened. She began to speak to my father as if he were there, becoming irate when we couldn’t see him.
Not long after, my family decided to hospitalize her. Mamaw detested the decision. What mother wanted to see her child placed in a mental institution? Mamaw kept telling us that evil spirits were tormenting my mother.
Spirits or no spirits, Mom needed help.
Pondering Jackson’s question about my mom, I finally thought of something to answer. “Hmmm, well, my mom, she’s alive.”
He raised a brow.
“I don’t see her much. She’s . . .” I paused and took a calming breath. “She’s in a medical facility. She’s not well.”
What more could I say?
“It must be difficult to have your father dead and your mother seriously ill?”
“It was hard for both of us, especially when we were younger, and we had to grow up quickly. Although, we were lucky to have the unwavering support of our family and friends.”
Mom never got better as time went on. We stayed with Mamaw until Blake graduated and went off to college. Uncle James came for a visit that same summer. He’d recently obtained a position as principal, and asked me if I wanted to come north and attend his high school in Minnesota.
It was not easy leaving my family, but I was tired of being the poor, fatherless girl whose mom went insane. As well, being alone in the house with Mamaw would’ve caused me to go insane—all that preaching. She wouldn’t let me turn around without a lecture. Sure, it was from love, but I wanted a bit more freedom. I accepted Uncle James’s offer, because I knew he would give me my space, and left for freedom, moving to Minnesota my freshman year.
“Well, Lauren, it’s good you had their support.”
“It is. But, it can also be a pain when they all gang up on me regarding my future.”
We’d had numerous heated family meetings. I’d been their main target concerning my lack of future plans. Each of them slowly tried to chip away at my decision, but I was determined to stand my ground.
“What are you interested in as far as a career, Lauren?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve tried to live in the moment since my dad’s death. My family continues to harp about my decision not to go straight to college, but I won’t make a move until I know what I want to do.”
Our meal finally arrived, and it was worth the wait. “I need to thank Adrianna,” Jackson stated between bites. “She’s dead-on about this restaurant.”
“It must be nice having an assistant.”
“I can’t keep up with what city I’m in, let alone my schedule. She’s great. You’ll meet her soon.”
“I will?”
“I hope you will. Are you enjoying yourself?”
I nodded, considering my mouth was full.
“Good. I can get her to plan something for date number two.”
I stared at him a bit to compose myself. “This is how you ask me out on another date?”
“Did it work?”
I laughed. “Yes, but shouldn’t we finish this one first?”
His expression suddenly changed as he reached over and held my hand. Jackson’s touch, along with his blazing stare, gave me goosebumps—everywhere.
I felt as if I was in a dream, and the clock was counting down to the end. He was a character in this world, assuming the role of movie-star playboy who easily made girls swoon and giggle in his presence. His smile came across as warm—but very unsettling at times. When he watched me, I felt on edge. That wasn’t how the story was to be told. My body reacted to him too easily. When he touched me, my skin was on fire, an aching reminder it wasn’t a dream.
And it wasn’t.
“What are you thinking, Lauren?”
I was in my head a little too long, and he was going to think I was nuts. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
“Am I boring you?”
There went that smile. “No. I-It’s nothing. Just thinking.”
“Anything I can help with?” His proximity was intimidating.
“I don’t think you can help me with my overly active mind. It’s a quirk, sorry.”
“I enjoy a girl with quirks.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. I have a lot,” I said.
We both laughed.
“Sorry, again.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being you, Lauren. I like you. Would you be available three weekends from now?” he asked.
“I would, if you’re serious?”
“I’m very serious. I have a tight schedule for the next few weeks, but it slows down soon after that. I’ll give you the details closer to the day.”
Jackson reached for one of the fortune cookies that was on the table and smiled when he read what was on the long, white slip of paper.
“What does it say?”
“You will meet an amazing, funny, beautiful, and sexy girl.”
“Wow, I can’t wait to meet her.” I chuckled. ”What does it really say?”
“You are loyal to your family. What does yours say?”
I broke one
open. “Your greatest weakness will be wrapped in a pretty package. Huh. I want a do-over.”
I reached for another one as Jackson grabbed the bowl away.
“No need,” he said, slightly panicked. “We can make our own fortune. Are you ready?” He stood and pulled out my chair.
Jackson stayed close behind me; his hand touched the small of my back as he guided me outside and to the car.
A couple fans that recognized Jackson stopped us. He was nice about it, and I offered to take their pictures with him. One of the girls glared at me, while the other smiled and thanked me.
I should have gotten a picture of Jackson and me, I thought.
Maybe next time.
He opened the car door, waited until I got in, and shut it behind me while he stood outside.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
He hovered at my open window. “No. I’m sorry, Lauren, I have to work tonight.”
“Oh, well, I had a great time, Jackson. Thank you.”
“So did I.” I could feel his warm breath on me. He stared into my eyes for a moment, winked, and kissed my forehead.
He pulled back a little, but our faces were still inches apart. His eyes darted from my eyes to my lips, and his smile grew when his gaze stopped at my mouth.
I instinctively used my hand to cover said mouth as a giggle erupted.
He shook his head, laughing, and quietly said goodnight.
I was left alone in the back of the chauffeur-driven car—alone with my thoughts, dreams, and fantasies.
It was insanely crowded back there for a while.
The studio promptly signed Blake, commissioning him to write two songs for the Primal Darkness soundtrack.
Typically, composers started work on film scores after shooting completed. However, one of the actors had a scene where he sang and played guitar, which forced Blake to begin working on the song immediately.
When he came up briefly for air, he asked me to stop by the studio where he was working. I missed my brother, and I was afraid the closeness between us had changed.
Blake kept a lot of things from me after Mom was hospitalized. At first, I gave him space, but then I realized he could have been keeping his distance to protect me. Protect me from what, I didn’t know. He was my big brother, and he played the role of protector well as we grew up.
When I was being bullied in school by an upper classman, Blake confronted the jerk and threatened he would soon be on the Amber Alert for missing kids if he didn’t back off.
He had my back, and I knew that, but he seemed clueless that I had his. I might not have been able to fight his battles physically, but I made it a mission to protect him the best way I could.
Blake told me he had one eye on me at all times. Yet, in reality, I was the one who watched him. When I was in Minnesota, I had to rely on other people’s eyes.
Because when Mom left, something dark triggered deep inside of him.
Everyone in town knew what happened to our parents. That, by no means, affected Blake socially at school. He was outgoing, the life of the party, and a ladies’ man. It was the partying that fueled his drinking problem. Stories surfaced around school about him, and I witnessed several incidents at home. I confronted him about it every time, but he dismissed it and told me not to worry.
Blake had numerous demons. He also battled with depression. One minute he would be energetic, the next lethargic.
Last year, Blake’s best friend, Cary Baine, called me at two in the morning from an emergency room. Blake had been binge drinking. Forgetting the fact he was taking antidepressant drugs had created a deadly concoction.
That night was one of my worst. If I’d lost Blake . . . well, I would have lost my mind. In fact, I did flip out. I wanted to fly home and be with him, but Uncle James felt it was best for me to stay put in Minnesota.
Wrong answer.
I went on a tirade and tore through my room, but stopped before I did any major damage. I had developed a temper, which was better-controlled now—I hoped.
After the hospital released Blake, with warnings he was very lucky, he realized what exactly he’d done, and why he shouldn’t mix medication with alcohol. He complained the meds weren’t working, so his doctor prescribed stronger medication and recommended counseling.
As if, that was going to happen.
Blake dealt with his issues by numbing himself into a catatonic state. I figured that was why I had a heightened sense of awareness when it came to my feelings and the emotions of others around me. I had to feel for both of us. He always said when I was around I brought calmness, peace in a way. When I wasn’t, and Blake had those moments where he allowed himself to feel, Cary was there to pick up the pieces.
Cary was a gift from God. We considered him a special part of our family. Our fathers grew up together and were close friends and confidants.
Dad and Cary’s father, Victor, were orphans in Manchester, England. The two young boys had a strong connection, starting the day they both arrived in the same orphanage. Each protected the other as they grew up in the system.
Victor, surprisingly, was adopted at age eight, but Dad wasn’t so lucky. As time went on, Dad decided he couldn’t stay there any longer. He ran away when he was fourteen, and he hid on a ship headed to the port of New Orleans.
Amazingly, he arrived safely in New Orleans, where he lived on the streets for a while, wandering north where he met Pastor Rochon. The pastor and his wife had no children, and they took him in as their own.
I didn’t have the chance to meet Pastor Rochon or his wife before they died. Dad rarely spoke about them. The only information I knew came from Mom; she was the talker.
Mom told us they died in a fire, some sort of electrical problem in their top floor apartment of their church. Pastor Rochon and his wife were found dead, holding each other in a corner.
Dad reunited with Victor when he brought Mom to England for their honeymoon. They’d remained close friends ever since. Victor would bring Cary to visit when he was in the States. When his company branched out to New York City, their visits became more frequent.
After Dad’s death, Victor stepped in. He handled all the arrangements and made sure we were secure financially. Most family decisions now included Victor. He still dropped in and called often.
Victor had several homes, since his company was in New York and London. Cary went to boarding school in England, but would visit Victor during his breaks.
One summer, Cary stayed with us for a couple weeks, and it was one of my best childhood memories.
Mamaw’s house was the only one for miles, and at night, the fields surrounding it were pitch-black. We would play Field Marco Polo, searching for each other through the maze of darkness.
During the day, we would go swimming in the nearby pond to cool off from the unbearable summer heat. One time, Cary and I went into town to escape the heat, and I saw my first animated movie at the old-time theater. It was still my favorite movie.
My best summer memories, though, were spent right at dusk. I’d go and paint the old church while Cary strummed cords on his guitar. He played as he watched me paint. He’d asked me once why I added a cherub around the graveyard. None existed there at the time. I explained that Mamaw said angels watched over us, and for some reason, I wanted some watching over the graves in my paintings.
That particular summer was incredible, and so was every visit thereafter.
Blake and Cary’s friendship also grew during those visits. They shared a passion for music, spending hours having jam sessions and talking.
For us, everything changed when Cary came to see Blake play his last football game his senior year; it coincided with his school break. It was during that visit I stormed into Blake’s room to yell at him to shut off the noise, when I found Cary half-naked, playing his guitar. Even though Cary was like an older brother, that night I saw him quite differently.
Cary’s muscles weren’t defined yet, and he looked pretty scrawny. His
brown hair was a mess, and his nose seemed bigger from the shadow casted by the muted light. I was going to crack a joke, make fun of his big head, but when those blue eyes looked up at me, everything changed. I could not explain it, but at that moment, I knew any brotherly feelings I had for Cary were gone.
Through the years, Cary and I grew closer; despite feeling there was an invisible wall between us. I assumed it was me, but sometimes it seemed as if he were pulling away on purpose.
Cary and Blake found time to jam during college breaks and summers. It continued to be annoying at times because they seemed to start in the middle of the night when Blake said he was more creative. I lost sleep, but it obviously worked for him.
Actually, it worked for both of them. Cary’s father was founder and CEO of Baine Enterprises. His company owned a television network that also had a music division. Cary happened to be performing at one of his dad’s annual holiday parties when he caught the attention of a top music producer in the industry. He liked Cary’s alternative sound and style, and he saw the potential for Cary to go far with his music. Cary was signed shortly thereafter, and he became an overnight success.
Cary lived solely for his music. When he accidentally discovered acting, they realized he was good at that, too. Magazines wrote Cary was “one of the most influential people of the day,” regarding his versatile career. Not to mention, he was voted the hottest man alive—twice.
That meant Jackson wasn’t the first celebrity in my life. I was sure if I lived in L.A., or even New York, I wouldn’t blink an eye knowing a few celebrities.
However, I lived in Louisiana. While Hollywood often filmed in New Orleans, it was rare to see, yet meet a celebrity. My family had judges, politicians, and even professional athletes, but no one was quite as famous as Cary.
The Devil has a British Accent: Book One: Jackson (White Carpet #1) Page 5