Eye of the Storms: The Rock Star's Gulf Coast Girl

by Lisa Gillis

  “What’s a whore?” Tristan’s face puckered, and my mother gasped.

  I stared flabbergasted as well. Seriously, did my son have some link into my mind while I was briefly thinking of the women in my past? Then, I understood that Tristan must have said ‘hoard.’ Either that, or he had heard the ‘W’ word before, and asked because he thought he was hearing it again now.

  Carefully, I pronounced the correct word, making sure the ‘D’ was heard and defined hoard the best I could for a four-year old. My mother was enjoying every minute of this, and the second the explanation finished, she headed to the den, presumably to relate her first cutesy grandson story to anyone who would listen.

  Wonderful. Another word for Mariss to give me hell about.

  “Give us a call tomorrow. We’ll try to fly out by early afternoon,” my pop planned as we stood at the front door. My mother swung Tristan up in a hug and squeezed Mariss’ shoulder in parting.

  In every trip involving planes, the plan was always, if possible, to get where we were going before dark. My dad had survived a plane crash and hated flying, especially at night. Since we would be gaining a couple of daylight hours flying east to west, the time worked.

  The door closed behind them. I leaned against it for a moment, watching as Mariss bent, picking up stray napkins and glasses. Each bend of her body, whether back view or front, caused the fabric of her dress to stretch sweetly across her curves.

  “Mom? Can I have another piece of pie?” Tristan asked. I saw that our son was hopefully hanging over the last two slices of the cheesecake.

  To my surprise, Mariss consented for whatever reason. But, she had been doing the parent thing way longer than I had, so she knew what she was doing. I hoped she did. Tonight, I was ready for Tristan to be asleep, not sugar rushing.

  Mariss finished up the dishes, and I finished off a piece of pie next to Tristan. As I ate, I eyed her every move and chattered with the two who, in a very short time, had become my favorite people in the world.

  After carrying Tristan to bed, I tucked him in with a very quick story and a promise of three stories the next night. Then I went back for Marissa.

  The lights were off. Only the night-light glowed in the kitchen and a small lamp in the den. Trekking the hall, I imagined the things we would do, and with a twist of my fingers to the button fly, made my jeans a little less tight.

  The bedroom was empty also, and the drone of running water propelled me forward, past the last-minute, packing that littered every surface area, to the bathroom.

  She lay, stretched full length, in the tub although it was not yet full with her head resting on the tile, her eyes closed, and an arm on either side.

  “You going to just stand there or come in?” Her question was soft, sweet, seductive. It was the only invitation I needed.

  In seconds, I was stepping in and situating behind her so that she rested against me. Uncontrolled, my hands began to wander, and when I claimed every inch of skin reachable from this position, I went back for my favorites.

  “Jacks?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Aha!”

  In her excitement, she shifted, and my answer was a partial groan as I enjoyed her backside against my dick.

  “What?”

  “Your parents call you Jacks. Why is that?”

  “No idea.” Squeezing a tit, I enjoyed the responses of her body as I played. The special weight that was all hers in my hand, the tickle of the tip in my palm, the quickening of her heart and breath.

  “Well, what’s your name?” Putting her hands over mine, she closed her grip, as if she could stop my moves. As if she wanted to talk.

  “Jackson.” Answering, I relaxed my hold, letting her get by with it for now.

  “Last name?”

  Her head turned slightly as she made the inquiry, dragging her hair across my shoulders and chest in a very distracting way.

  “Hmm?”

  “I heard your dad introduce himself and your mom to my parents. And, he said a different last name. It wasn’t Storm.”

  “Why are we talking names?” Letting my fingers dip beneath the water to her pussy, I hoped to distract her, and I found my efforts rewarded when I heard the hitch of her breath and felt the arc of her chest beneath my other hand. “I have a question. Why do your parents wonder what I do for a living?”

  “I don’t know. It never came up. They didn’t ask before tonight, and it never seemed important.” Her tone was a touch defensive, and she stiffened slightly.

  For years, people had gravitated to me for who I was, even before I was who I was. Growing up, my dad was who he was, making me and Meg who we were to the outside world. It was hard to ever know who really gave a shit about me when it came to women and friends.

  I was enjoying that Mariss didn’t really have a clue of anything beyond this me, right here. Not that it would change anything with her. I knew her better than that. She had not been star struck at any time by Jack Storm.

  There was no reason to think she would with Jack anyone.

  One more night of anonymity.

  My fingers had paused their light strokes, hovering over her doorbell, and now I pressed and smiled into her hair when she gelled against me again.

  My fingers moved in circular swipes until I slipped them beyond, into her silky slick heat and transferred my thumb to her abandoned clit. I savored her sweet, instantaneous moan. Hooking the fingers of my other hand into her hair, I touched my lips to her shoulder and then urging her head to twist to mine, laid on a kiss, putting everything I felt into it.

  My name soon came up again, but not in questions.

  Between broken breaths, she whispered it.

  Unintelligible, she began it but couldn’t finish it.

  It echoed from the tub tiles as she quietly screamed it.

  Lastly, spoken against my skin, she sighed it.

  “I love you Jack.”

  Preview Eye of the Storms Two

  West Coast Girl

  To women who love inked up and often obnoxious musicians

  CHAPTER 1

  Text me, the second you get there! And call me ASAP?” Olivia’s eyes shimmered, and I was sure mine were too as we stood hugging on the tiny porch of my home.

  The new luggage Jack had surprised us with, strained at its seams and lined the hallway just inside the front door. Since Jack hadn’t been able to find a set in any one of Tristan’s favorite themes, Tristan had ended up with a variety; a rolling Hot Wheels duffel, a Bandit backpack, and a rolling Scooby backpack.

  Jack appeared, bustling at high-speed, the mode he had been in all morning, and grabbed up all three of Tristan’s bags before shouldering around Olivia and me with a grin. The smile had rarely been off his lips in the last hours, and I knew he was anxious to be back in LA, and just as anxious to have us there with him.

  Us . A word I was still not used to, even though I had dreamed of it for so long. He bent, slightly shuffling his own bags in the trunk of the rental to make room for ours, and when I tore my eyes from the molded pockets of his jeans, I found a broad smile had joined Olivia’s teary countenance.

  “I’m so happy for you, Rissa. Gosh what am I going to do without you guys, without my little guy?” Olivia had spent a quarter of an hour saying her goodbyes to Tristan, while showing him how to use the new drawing app she downloaded for him on his tablet.

  “I will take good care of ‘em,” Jack promised, having walked by in time to hear her mournful words, and he even paused to pull her into a light hug. Olivia actually blushed and had to rivet her gaze from him as he bent for more luggage. This time, I was the one who smiled knowingly. Liv might be married, but who could be immune to Jack?

  “And you take care of my dog,” I told Olivia. Bally would be joining us in California within the next couple of weeks, but until then, the dog was boarding with Liv. Tristan had spent a day with Olivia, picking out new toys for Bally, and adding them to the rest of the lab’s things at the home away fr
om home.

  ♪♫¨♫♪

  Watching Tristan’s face at the airport was as exhilarating as the upcoming trip. I had only flown once before, but this experience was vastly different from the get go. Jack turned off of the main terminal access road and almost immediately small jets became visible on the tarmac and inside open hangars.

  “Do you see hangar numbers?” He inquired, squinting through the windshield. “We are looking for forty-five, but I don’t see numbers…”

  “There!” I pointed to a metallic eleven glinting in the sunlight.

  “Do you have a passport?” Jack inquired, as the car rolled past each number and we watched for ours.

  “Do I need one?” Airport security was ever-changing, and I panicked, thinking requirements possibly had changed for domestic flights.

  “You will need one.” He answered, stressing the ‘will’ with a curve of his lips. “And Tristan too. We have ten Europe dates on this next tour.”

  Parking the car in front of hangar forty-five, he popped the trunk, and hopped out. Jack hoisted Tristan, piggy-back style, before grabbing as much luggage as he could carry. I followed suit, and we headed to the tiny entrance in the back of the hangar.

  Before we closed the distance, the door burst open, and Jack’s father, wearing a broad grin, advanced on us. Quick greetings were exchanged, and he gallantly insisted on divesting me of my load, leaving only the messenger bag hanging on my shoulder. Inside, Jack deposited Tristan on a chair next to his mom, and the men went out for the rest of the things.

  “Hi Marissa,” Jack’s mother greeted, and pulled Tristan into a warm hug. “And hello, Tristan. Are you ready to fly today in an airplane?”

  Tristan was quickly sugared up with a kiss or two from this new grandmother, as well as powdered donuts and hot chocolate. Watching the two of them, I threw away the hot chocolate packages, filled a cup with hot water, and dumped in a package of instant coffee.

  The room was outfitted as a comfortable lounge, but instead of settling in one of the cushy chairs, I paced. Jack and his father were carrying the bags through, to another door leading to the actual hangar. Hovering at this threshold, I marveled at the glossy white jet, and wanted to show it to Tristan, but my son was deep in conversation with his grandmother.

  The luggage was in a neat line, largest to smallest, and I wondered if they organized it by weight when loading. The glare refracting from the runway beyond the large opening was bright, and a couple of men appeared from this direction. They shook hands with Jack and his father, and then the younger of the two climbed into the plane.

  “Mariss?” Jack asked, as he walked among the luggage, “What do you want up front with you, and which bag does Tristan need with him?”

  Stepping forward, I indicated the bags in question, and when Jack began to toss the others up to the plane, the guy began to stow them into a cargo area.

  At this time, Jack’s mother and Tristan emerged, and Jack’s father turned from his conversation at hand. Kneeling to Tristan, he gave him a hug, and teased of the crutch, “You don’t even look like you need that anymore! You about ready to throw it away?”

  Tristan nodded with a shy smile.

  We boarded, Jack again carrying Tristan, and I tried not to gawk in awe at mocha leather seating, which included a long couch type seat and two recliner type chairs, and wood grain walls, and plush carpet. Right away, I noticed my stuff, as well as Tristan and Jack’s, on the couch, and that is where the three of us seated ourselves.

  Jack’s mother took a seat in one of the thick chairs, and his father in the chair across. The plane began to roll, preparing for takeoff, and I tried to manage Tristan as, constrained by his seat belt, he twisted to look out the window behind him.

  “Okay, we obviously did things backwards here,” Jack laughed, and a trade of seats was quickly made. Tristan moved into the seat across from his grandmother, where he happily turned his attention to the window next to him. Jack moved into the middle space next to me, and Jack’s father took his spot.

  For some reason, I could not keep my eyes from straying to Jack’s father. Something seemed familiar about this family, as if I knew them, had been with them before. Eventually, I shrugged it off as fate. I belonged with them even though I was not yet comfortable with them.

  Tristan began to alternate his attention between the window and the television flat against the wall. Jack and his father were laughing over some redneck reality show. Jack’s mother was writing in a spiral notebook when she wasn’t engaging Tristan in conversation.

  The plane descended into the Denton airport on the outskirts of Dallas. We all debarked while some of the luggage was unloaded.

  Jack with Tristan had just emerged from the restroom when a woman, who looked to be in her fifties, came into the lounge area of the hangar.

  “Yoohoo?” The woman knocked as she breezed in. Yet again, I felt a fleeting familiarity. The woman formally put out her hand to Jack’s mother. “Hello, It’s been years, I’m—”

  “Years!” Jack’s mother agreed and introduced the other woman. I was left trying to control my amazement when I associated the name with a renowned pop star of years back. Mrs. Loren went on, only to be interrupted, “This is my son Jacks—”

  “Oh, my stars! You were just a baby the last time I saw you!” The woman gushed, and I had the rare pleasure of seeing Jack turn red. “And now, you look so much like your father back in the day! Matt had that same dark, almost black, hair!” The aged pop star continued, and now, strangely enough, Jack’s mother flushed, and her eyes glowed with a glimmer of irritation. “Does Matt still have dark hair, or is he gray like the rest of us? I don’t know about you, Jules, and your beautiful red, but I am gray under this blonde!”

  “Um…” Jack’s mother seemed reluctant to speak of her husband to the woman and quickly derailed the conversation. “This is my grandson!” Tristan was hiding out behind his father, and his grandmother urged him forward.

  “Ooh, now he is the spitting image of Jack the last time I saw him. The festival in Glasgow was it?” The woman was crooning over my son, and protectively, I moved nearer.

  “This is Jacks’ fiancée, Marissa.” Jack’s mother smoothly continued, as if she hadn’t been interrupted.

  “Hello, Marissa. A pleasure to meet you—” At this point, the door leading to the hangar swung open, and to confound the situation even more, Jack’s father looked as if he wanted to back quickly out before being noticed. But it was too late. “Matt Loren! It has been ages! Just ages! I could not believe when my pilot mentioned that you were circling for a runway. I had to stay and say hi!”

  “Hello, Tracy.” Jack’s father clasped one of her hands in both of his, but the former pop star maneuvered it into a hug. Pulling back, he asked, “What brings you to the DFW area?”

  “I just did a cosmetics promo.”

  Their voices faded as everything clicked into place—like a jigsaw puzzle that I had never known was missing pieces. The woman took her leave, and a collective relief settled on the room. As Jack and his family began their goodbyes, I again scrutinized his father.

  “Marissa.” The man draped an arm warmly about my shoulder. “Take care of these boys. Don’t let ‘em get into too much trouble.” He winked at Tristan.

  “You’re Matt Loren!”

  Taken aback by this outburst, he moved away enough to study my face and next turned quizzically to Jack.

  “You’re Matt Loren. I cannot believe I didn’t see this last night! You are Matt Loren!”

  Jack’s father, Matt, seemed to be trying to control the quirk of amusement on his lips. Jack’s mother, Jules, sent Jack a strange look, her husband a confused look, and me a sympathetic one. The sympathy, I quickly understood when my limbs felt weightless for a moment, and I knew I must look as shocked as I felt.

  Matt Loren was a rock legend, his hits easily riding out the decades, long after his bands stopped touring. The songs were in regular rotation both on the classics
stations and nineties alternative.

  Trying to recover, I stammered of the two bands Matt Loren was most known for, “I grew up listening to Jewelweed and After Hours… I can’t believe… this is crazy…”

  My eyes sought Jack’s, but he was in some eye battle with his mother who seemed to have won because he looked away first and then down at the floor.

  “Let’s get you guys on the plane so you can get to LA before dark.” After bestowing a warm smile on me, Matt took control.

  “Your song ‘I could be’ is my favorite.” I couldn’t seem to shut up. Mortified because I had extended what was already an embarrassing moment, I bolted for the door.

  Jack’s parents seemed reluctant to let us go, their eyes lingering fondly on Tristan.

  “This is a surprise for when you get to your daddy’s house.” Jules showed a colorful shopping bag to Tristan before hooking it and another over my hand. “And this is a housewarming for you and Jacks.”

  Accepting the proffered ginormous shopping bag with a thank-you, I watched as Matt and Jules Loren warmly embraced my son, and their own son. After a quick hug to me, we were admonished to board so we could “get home before dark.”

  I safety belted Tristan into the same chair he had earlier vacated, and instead of taking the seat beside Jack, I sat in the one across from Tristan.

  “Want a drink?” Jack stood at the mini bar, catching my eyes in the mirrored wall as he offered.

  “I do!” Tristan informed, sparing only a glance from his rummage through his shopping bag. “Look Mom!” Tristan tossed the swim trunks and Bandit beach towel aside in his excitement upon discovering an assortment of blow up toys, diving rings, and various other pool fun.

  To Tristan’s astonishment, Jack folded out a table from its compartment in the boy’s armrest and set two juice boxes atop it. A few minutes later, Jack set a mixed drink in the cup holder on the arm of my chair and returned to his seat with his own.

  The pilot stepped out of his nook long enough to inform us that we were about to taxi. Once we were in the air, I addressed the elephant in the cabin.