by T. Torrest
Seeing that smoldering look on his face and feeling the way those captivating eyes are turning my insides to mush... there’s no way I can.
CHAPTER 10
Monday, May 29, 1995
2:10 AM
Monty’s House
Spring Lake
It’s just after two in the morning by the time Jack gets back to the house.
Not like I’ve been waiting for him or anything.
But because I’ve been drinking steadily all evening, and because he greets me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on a human, I realize that I’m more than a little happy to see him. We immediately find a private post in a darkened corner of the backyard to carve out a few minutes of alone-time.
“How’d it go tonight?” I ask.
“Good! Well, great show. Shitty audience.”
“They didn’t appreciate the musical stylings of Thunderjug?”
“Nah, it wasn’t that. It’s just that there was hardly anyone there.” He pauses before adding out the corner of his mouth, “The Nerds were playing at Tycoon’s. I guess everyone went there instead.”
The Nerds are the premiere act in the entire state of New Jersey. They’ve been playing together for years and have built up quite the following. God help any bands trying to pull people into their gig if The Nerds are anywhere in the general vicinity. I know as well as Jack that it’s a lost cause, and that there’s nothing I can really say about it that he doesn’t already know.
I skip the sympathy and instead scan the party scene. I’m looking for a change of subject when I see Monty on the patio, flipping burgers at the grill. Never one to do anything halfway, he’s dressed in a chef’s hat, oven mitt, and long apron over his bathing suit. He turns around, allowing me to make out the words on his apron: “Hot Meat Coming: Watch Your Back.”
I cackle aloud, prompting Jack to ask what’s so funny. Laughing too hard to repeat it, I point in Monty’s direction. Jack squints in order to see from the dim light of the grill’s fire, reads it for himself, and just shakes his head.
I giggle out, “He has no pride.”
Without missing a beat, Jack looks me right in the eyes and says, “Yeah, but he’s got really cute friends.”
As much as the comment floors me, I make a concerted effort to take it with a grain of salt. He’s already made it perfectly clear that he won’t be down for anything more R-rated than a conversation.
It’s pretty bad timing for him to choose this moment to press our abandoned subject from earlier. “So, have you made up your mind yet?”
“About what?” I ask, unconvincingly. We both know what he’s asking me, here.
He humors me anyway. “About letting me take you out.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Jack’s lip quirks before he says, “I’ll bet.”
I don’t like being caught in a lie, and now I’m feeling overly self-conscious. “Why can’t you just drop it?”
“Why can’t you just drop the act?”
His mocking tone makes me hyper-aware of my defensive stance. I’ve got my hands on my hips and my head cocked to one side… and I suddenly feel very, very stupid.
I turn to him and snip out, “I’d rather just drop this conversation.”
And then I storm off.
Only once all night do I actually attempt to see if he’s even still at the party. It’s not until hours have gone by that my eyes scan the crowd... and land directly on his.
He’s standing near the hot tub, leaning against its wall. And damn him if he doesn’t look as though he’s been standing there watching me all along. In the quick second it takes to break my gaze and pretend that I don’t see him, a sly grin decorates his face.
Vix must see my eyes narrowing into slits, because she asks, “Hey, Liv. You okay?”
On a shaky exhale, I answer, “It’s just really late and I’m tired. I’m going up to bed.”
I throw out my cup on the way into the house and step over some sleeping bodies on my trek through the family room.
Making my way upstairs and into the bedroom, I change into PJs and climb into bed. I realize I forgot to brush my teeth and am almost drunk enough not to care. But when my head starts pounding, I figure it’s just as well. I throw off the covers with a frustrated grunt and go into the bathroom.
I brush, down two Tylenol, sink back into bed, and will sleep to come. My last conscious thought is a wish to never see Jack again... then the realization that I’m lying.
* * *
I awake to the crush of my sister, climbing over me on her way to the bathroom. After a few groggy moments, I quietly slide out from under the covers, too. I’m trying not to disturb Sam, who’s still sleeping in the big bed the three of us have apparently shared. I’m surprised that I slept so soundly, not taking notice of the fact that the two other bodies crept in while I dozed. Checking the time, I can’t believe it’s almost noon.
I step around Isla who’s passed out on the bare floor and snicker when there’s no sign of Tess. I crumple into a sitting position outside the bathroom door, still half-asleep and waiting on Vix’s exit. When I glance up... I’m greeted with the sight of Isla’s naked ass.
I guess she must’ve stripped off her shorts to pass out in only the shirt and thong she’d been wearing all night. But the sheet that covered her must have tangled away when she turned on her side, exposing her bare butt to the breeze. And now it’s smiling directly at me.
My face buries into my elbow as I try to contain my laughter. My entire body is convulsing silently as Vix comes out of the bathroom. She crouches down next to me and puts a consoling hand to my back, obviously under the mistaken impression that I’m crying. “Oh my God. Liv. What happened? Are you okay?”
“No. I’m scarred for life.”
I raise a finger to point in Isla’s direction, and Vix can finally see my upturned mouth. She looks for herself and chokes on her own breath, joining me in the impossible task of trying to keep quiet. We have our hands over our mouths and tears are streaming down our faces, but it’s no use. A slow crescendo of guffaws breaks from our throats as we start rolling around on the floor, laughing uncontrollably.
The commotion wakes both girls and I shout, “Put that thing away, Isla!”
Isla rises up on an elbow and looks at us over her shoulder, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. She’s still half asleep, and her hair is tangled and matted to one side of her head as she tries to focus on us through her slitted eyelids. Her dazed expression, her crazy hair, and the fact that her ass is still staring us in the face has us howling even louder. I think I’m going to pass out, I swear to God.
Once Sam joins in with our snickering, Isla finally registers what’s so funny. She sits up and pulls the sheet across her bare legs, and her cheeks—the ones on her face—turn red as she blasts, “Grow up!”
She’s trying not to crack a smile as she grabs the closest thing within reach of her hand, and before I can blink, a chunky, black, Steve Madden sandal whizzes past my head and thuds against the wall.
I’m still laughing hysterically as I drag to my feet and go into the bathroom.
Vix calls from the other side of the door, “Don’t be too long! We have to get on the road soon if we want to make dinner at Mom and Dad’s!”
I shower quickly, and by the time I pack up my things, Vix is ready to go. We say goodbye to our friends and head downstairs.
The house is still pretty dead, which is to be expected after the late one we all put in last night. We have to find Monty to say goodbye, so we follow the sound of voices coming from the yard. As we exit through the open doors, I hope that Jack isn’t awake yet.
Thankfully, he must still be asleep, because the only people outside are Monty, Ron, and Tess, a circumstance that has me breathing a sigh of relief.
“Slept in the cabana again, didn’t you?” Vix taunts.
Tess makes a durr-hurr face in response, but Ronnie is looking fairly pleased
with himself. The two of them had gone MIA shortly after midnight, and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why.
Instead of sticking around for all the gory details that Ron is sure to impart, we all exchange pecks on the cheek and then get on our way.
Once in the car, Vix doesn’t ask too many questions about Jack—she mostly inquires about my opinion of his band. Save for a few sly comments here and there, she pretty much lays off for once.
Despite the fact that she barely even mentions Jack’s name, I’m thinking of little else on the ride home.
CHAPTER 11
Monday, May 29, 1995
2:11 PM
Mom and Dad’s House
Shermer Heights
Even though my father has spent the majority of his adult life earning a living as a musician, he never advanced to The Big Time. He was close to The Dream back in the seventies when his band Persuasion was almost signed by Columbia Records. But then his drummer OD’d right before their showcase concert, and Columbia wasn’t willing to wait around for Persuasion to regroup.
But regroup they did, only to find that they’d missed their window. These days, Dad’s band tours the wedding circuit, and even then, they don’t get regular bookings. Persuasion is currently the house band at The Brownstone, a reception hall a few towns over. He still loves performing, though, even if he’s only playing covers, and even when “Celebration” is requested for the hundredth time.
I get it.
Fact is, his love of music has been passed down to his daughters, especially his “youngest” one. Too bad I didn’t inherit any of my mother’s grace. I can’t dance for shit.
Growing up in such an unconventional household was pretty cool. While most of my friends spent their weekends at family barbecues and birthday parties, Dad would be dragging us all along on trips to his music festivals or rock concerts. Most of our outings were to watch Dad perform, but even then, he was normally on the bill with some other bands we’d actually heard of. Hell. I saw Black Sabbath at the age of five, and how many kids can say that?
Though if I’m going to be honest here, I have to say that there were definitely times when I just wanted to be a regular girl. I wanted to watch Saturday morning cartoons and join the cheerleading squad and go to the mall with my friends. Sometimes, it felt like I was forced to live his life instead of my own, and there was definitely a little resentment present because of it. Don’t get me wrong—I never begrudged my father’s dream. It was a good dream, so I was happy for him that he was pursuing it.
But you can’t pay the mortgage with dreams.
Once Vix and I were old enough to take care of ourselves, we normally chose to skip the road trips and stay home with our friends. But doing so meant that we’d spend weeks at a time without seeing Dad while he was off playing some gig. Now that I’m in my twenties, I love having my own life, but there’s a part of me that kinda misses hanging out with him the way I did as a kid.
Yeah, yeah. You want to get all psychologisty with me and say that I’m trying to deal with my daddy issues by sleeping with musicians? Go right ahead. But you’d be wrong. Fact is, I enjoy sex and I love music. End of story.
Before we can even knock, the front door swings open to reveal my Dad, smiling his goofy grin at the two of us. “Livia Moon!” he says to Vix, bringing her in for a hug. “And hello to you too, Victoria Star!”
Pretending to get the twins mixed up is one of the worst running jokes in our family. Trust me, people can tell us apart, no problem. Vix and I both have dark, reddish-brown hair and green eyes, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end.
And oh yeah. The middle names. I’m just going to pretend you didn’t hear that, okay?
“Ha ha, Dad,” I offer through his squeeze. “New one.”
He laughs and releases his boa-constrictor hold on me. “How was your weekend?” he asks, leading us into the den.
There’s a platter set out with cheese and crackers, so I grab a slice of cheddar, nibbling on it as I answer, “Epic as usual. How was Vermont?”
Dad plants himself in his ratty, leather recliner. “Oh, there’s not a bad season in Vermont. It was beautiful. They constructed an entire stage on this open field for the festival, and we were on the bill along with about twenty other bands. The thing went on for two whole days! It was just like Woodstock.”
Yep. My parents were at Woodstock. It’s where they met, actually, and they never miss an opportunity to bring the conversation around to their hedonistic weekend back in 1969. I won’t bore you with the story here, but suffice it to say, the details have changed about a million times over the years anyway. Vix and I are pretty sure Mom and Dad were completely stoned the entire time, and have simply filled in the blanks for our benefit. So much so that my father swears he’s in the picture on the album cover. Well, not the actual album, but in the original, expanded picture of it—the one he has framed on the wall of the very room we’re sitting in—he’s insistent that the guy in the upper right-hand corner wearing a red shirt is him.
Dad flips open the carved wooden box on the side table to roll a cigarette. It would be easier if he just bought a goddamn pack of Marlboros instead, but the hand-rolled ciggies have always provided him with a cover.
He rolls the cig quickly, licks the paper to seal it off, and lights it. As if we couldn’t smell the difference, the fact that he’s smoking inside tips us off that this is a straight cig. He always goes outside to smoke his pot.
Mom joins us, wiping her hands on the dish towel tucked into her belt loop as she kisses us hello. “Hi Girls!” Sitting on the arm of Dad’s chair, she pinches the cig from his fingers. “Dinner’s almost ready. Chicken Rollantine,” she adds on a wink before taking a drag.
“So how was your wedding?” Vix asks.
Dad reclaims his cig, and taking a long pull, he answers on an exhale. “Pretty good. Well, at least up until the father of the groom got drunk and made a toast.”
Oh God. We love these stories. Dad has absolutely seen it all. Vix and I are practically busting out of our skin when we ask, “Why? What happened?”
He smiles just to prolong the agony. “Dad!” I yell at him. “Spill it!”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs out. “Well, the F-O-G staggers up to us in the middle of “Disco Inferno” and keeps pestering Phil for the mic. We finally wind the song down and hand it over, and he slurs out this totally creepy rant about how hot his new daughter-in-law looks in her low-cut gown.”
“Ewww!”
“Yeah, well, I grabbed the mic before he could go into detail. But get this one: The F-O-B was so grateful to me for cutting him off that he tipped us an extra grand.”
“Get out of here!”
“Yep.” He snuffs out his cig and says, “I’ve had my eye on this sweet Fender Strat forever. I’m picking it up tomorrow.”
I want to tell him to use the surprise two-fifty to pay the goddamn overdue phone bill, but instead, I shut up and try to look appropriately thrilled for him. Thankfully, Vix speaks up before I can lose my cool. “Were you there for that, Mom?”
My mother shakes her head and says, “Nooo. I skipped that one, thank God. I booked a few classes instead.”
The doorbell rings, and we all stop and stare at one another. You’d think we never heard a doorbell before, because Mom is the only person who thinks to get up and answer it.
Do you ever have those moments when you’re just going about your life and everything is normal, but then out of nowhere, you see something completely out of place? Like a guy in front of some fast food place in a chicken costume or something. And your brain takes an extra second to register it, like, what is that doing there?
Yeah.
That’s kind of how I feel right now, watching my mother escort Jack into the room.
I jump up so abruptly that my knee catches the edge of the coffee table, and the plate of cheese and crackers goes sliding to the floor.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, p
erfectly astounded.
Jack plasters a crooked smile on his face to explain, “Monty gave me the address. Sorry. I didn’t realize it was your parents’ house.”
“But why are you looking for me?”
“You forgot this.” He holds up my camera case by its strap, the black canvas bag swinging from his fingertips. “I figured it was important, and your house was on the way home.”
Crap. I can’t believe I forgot my camera! But instead of dwelling on my boneheaded move, I remark, “Shermer Heights isn’t on anyone’s way home.”
“It is on mine. I live here.”
Jack Fucking Tanner lives in the same town as my parents?
Before Mom and Dad can start asking questions, I drop to my knees to clean up my mess. Jack crouches down to help.
While we’re picking up cheese and crackers off the shag, he asks, “It’s okay that I’m here, right?”
No. No, it most certainly is not okay. But instead of telling him that, I just give him a nod of my head and say, “Mm hmm.”
When we stand up, I can see my parents looking at us curiously. I forgot that there were other people in the room. “Oh, uh… Mom, Dad… this is Jack Tanner.”
My mother gives a wave and asks, “Nice to meet you Jack. Welcome to our home. How do you know our Livia?”
Before I can stop him, he answers, “She came to see my band play The Tradewinds.”
My father perks up. “Ohh, so you’re a musician, too!”
“Yes sir.”
Dad lowers an eyebrow at him. “Call me that again, and you’ll find yourself out on the curb. The name’s Russ, got it?”
Jack chuckles. “Yes, Russ. Understood.” As they shake hands, Jack nods his head over my father’s shoulder. “Nice collection.”
My father has four entire bookcases filled with record albums. Jack’s interest in them gives Dad all the excuse he needs to declare, “Oh, albums are the only way to go. There’s a reason Pearl Jam still releases on vinyl.”