Weathering Jack Storm

by Lisa Gillis

  The riffs dwindled a few times, and then stopped altogether. Just as she was wondering if he were asleep, he spoke.

  “I cannot believe my sister. Sometimes, I wonder if she is capable of caring about anyone but herself.”

  Marissa silently commiserated. No matter how logical, it had been humiliating to sit through Meg’s suspicions and devastating to know that Tristan was the product of those ugly accusations. Jack, however, had his own demons with his sister.

  “She is always running off with the mouth and ruining everything.” His voice was quiet and sad, but it echoed across the water. “She has always been holier than thou. You have no idea how cool it was to be able to show Tristan off, to have a son too. And then, she fucking ruins the moment. Ruins everything—on the day that Tristan walked.”

  She had no idea what to say to that, as until now, she had not considered how his sister’s words affected him. Naturally, he would be hurt as well as angry.

  Her guilt seemed a physical, looming shadow at times like this. She had hidden the pregnancy. Whether they, as a family, at that time, would have actually worked out, or not, had not been for her to decide. She was beginning to feel like they had lost years together. Every indication in every conversation with Jack pointed to a positive reception of fatherhood, even from the beginning. Tonight had shown her something disturbing. To anyone, the years apart could look like the elaborate scheme that even Jack had once suspected it was.

  “I’m sorry Jack,” The whisper was soft. She had no idea if it reached his ears or not.

  “For what?” He had heard her, and was she imagining what she heard? The doubt. The slight concession that his sister might be right.

  “That she said that. That the things she said fucked up the day.”

  A quarter of an hour passed with the tension still hanging in the night air, yet slightly relaxed by the quiet. A few times, she opened her eyes wondering if he were asleep, if he planned to sleep out there, as he had before.

  “Mariss? You can’t hear anything in the house from out here. Could you turn Tristan cam on that t.v.?”

  Feeling as if she were accepting the bad mother of the year award for not thinking of this herself, she swung off the couch and crossed to the bar television. Pulling open a drawer, she extracted the remote, and once the screen powered up, tuned to channel eleven. Hitting the volume, she made sure it wasn’t muted, and was about to return to her spot when something seemed wrong with the screen.

  Apprehension carried her closer, and when she saw that his bunk was empty, the covers balled to the side, she whipped around striding to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “He’s not in his bed. Probably in the bathroom. Just checking.”

  The last chopped sentence fell in her wake as she left the sliding door open. Sniffling could be heard the moment she was in the kitchen, the hiccupping kind that ends a hard cry.

  “Tristan?” She followed the sounds crossing the large entry hall, and the first oddity she noticed was Rusty at the foot of the staircase. Upon seeing Marissa, the dog, in true Lassie form, darted up the stairs stopping midway, and it was there that Tristan sat, his eyes swollen from crying.

  “Momma!” His voice cracked with his happiness to see her. “Momma, I fell!”

  Tripping up the stairs in her haste, she grabbed at the railing to keep from falling on her face. “Are you hurt?!”

  “My arm hurts. Really bad.”

  “Sweetie…” Easing down next to him, she automatically checked his head, his neck, back, and face, before gently taking his arm in her hand. He cried out when she carefully attempted to straighten the limb. “Don’t move. I will be right back.”

  “Can you get Daddy?”

  “Yes, honey. I’m getting Daddy.”

  Two steps down, she tripped over Rusty, who was still lurking, and barely caught herself on the banister.

  “Jack!” Her yells began the second she crossed into the kitchen, and she raced to the open door. “Jack!”

  The emergency room trip was quicker than the one other time she had ever had to take him, and she wondered, without caring, if Tristan was getting preferential treatment.

  When they were released, Tristan rode piggyback on Jack, holding to his neck with one arm. A blue cast wrapped the other arm, and the boy was extremely proud of it.

  The automatic doors slid open, and even though it was late—after midnight—upon exiting, a blinding light similar to sunlight hit her eyes. Jack immediately pivoted away, and she followed his lead. However, the exit doors worked only one way, and the glass they encountered reflected strobing camera flashes.

  This was the first run in with paparazzi since the drop party, and her maternal protective instinct kicked in tenfold. The glass of the door may as well have been a mirror, and she beheld the bedraggled image that she knew was now on a digital card. Before leaving the house, all she had done was trade her pajama bottoms for jeans. Her hair hung in an uncombed ponytail.

  Jack’s hair was also uncombed and still damp from the pool. He had pulled on a pair of running pants and a band tee shirt, and his shoes fit loose, sloppily tied from quickly shoving his foot into them.

  He scanned the concrete expanse to the entry doors, and she could see the speculation on his face. “Put his face down on my back.” Pulling his phone from its clip, he tapped at the screen. “Car’s now unlocked. I don’t want to hurt his arm trying to get him in the back. Can you drive?”

  Seriously? He was asking this less than a week after she had caused a pileup on the freeway?

  “Sure.” Determinedly, she nodded.

  “Alright let’s go for it,” he muttered.

  “Keep your head down on Daddy, Tristan.” Marissa soothingly brushed at her son’s hair as she settled his face again on Jack’s tee shirt.

  “Try to keep your purse between him and them.” As Jack gave the advice, he caught her hand and they turned. With heads ducked, they darted down the walkway, off the curb, and across the lot.

  It took less than a minute to load up.

  Of pure bedlam.

  “Jack, do you mind, just one picture, mate.”

  “I’m sorry. Not tonight.” Jack’s voice was amazingly calm, and she marveled that he didn’t yell at them to step off.

  “Marissa! Over here, lovie!”

  Surprised at having her name called out, she looked and was instantly blinded with a flash. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she continued the sprint, all the while using her purse block Tristan’s head.

  “Is that a cast? How did he hurt his arm?”

  “Just a short statement. No pictures. Please. Marissa? Jack?”

  The click of the locks as they took refuge in the car was comforting, as well as the black tint of the windows. One man leaned across the hood with his camera, and Jack quickly flipped the visors down and issued the voice-start command for the ignition.

  When volunteering to drive, she had not considered trying to keep from splattering random paparazzi as roadkill. Jack’s car jerked with pent-up power at the mere tap of her foot on the gas, and in panic, her foot smashed on the brake.

  “Just coast back, Mariss honey, they will move.”

  A few miles down the road, she pulled into a gas station where, after carefully settling Tristan in the back, they switched seats.

  “Who were those people?” Tristan wondered, and a quake of anxiety riddled his voice.

  Jack fielded the question as truthfully and as concise as possible, and Marissa loved him even more for having learned that Tristan was capable of understanding things well past his age.

  “...and they like the music a lot so they are interested in what we as a family do every day.”

  When he wound up the explanation, Tristan asked, “Why do they want my picture? If they like your music?”

  Slowing to a stop at a red light, Jack considered, and Marissa watched as he came up empty. No matter how mature the tiny boy was, it would not do to tell him his pict
ure was going to be sold! Jack’s dark gaze slid to her face, and reading the silent plea, she jumped in.

  “Because you are as handsome as your daddy!” Leaning around the seat to better peer into the back, she contorted her face into the tease by widening her eyes and her smile and crossing her pupils for a second. “Get used to it. Because I have a feeling if we stick with daddy we are going to get that a lot!”

  The broken arm was the one Tristan normally used for his crutch. Awkwardly, he attempted to use his other arm, and frustration filled his features. Jack carried him up the front steps, and after a quick snack in the kitchen, up to the master suite.

  Settling their son in the middle of the giant bed, Jack tucked a pillow under his arm. Then, he turned, whistling to Rusty and latched the pup inside the cage.

  “Why does Rusty have to sleep in there?” Tristan’s inquisitive voice was growing weaker and wearier.

  “Remember the torn up couch pillows?” Jack sardonically inquired. “Rusty is not always a good dog when he’s left on his own.”

  “Rusty didn’t mean to make me fall,” Tristan sighed.

  CHAPTER 27

  JACK’S HEAD SWIVELED around, and Marissa froze in the act of stepping out of her jeans. Kicking them aside, she dropped to the edge of the bed instead of pulling on the waiting pajama bottoms.

  “Tristan, honey,” her fingers smoothed at the hair on his face, noting the droopy eyes. “Momma’s been wondering. Why were you on the stairs?”

  “I needed to ask you and Daddy something. And you weren’t asleep in your rooms.”

  “But why were you on the stairs and not the elevator?”

  “I’m almost better. I walked some at the beach. I thought I could use the stairs like you and Daddy.”

  The tips of her fingers stroked over the smooth skin of his forehead, then cheekbones. He never liked feeling different. Probably, she should have used the elevator more in coming or going from the second floor even when she was alone. The only time they really used the convenience was when Tristan was going up at the same time as them.

  At some time during the last few days, the blockade gate at the top of the stairs had been removed and not put back making their son’s try even easier.

  “You are almost better,” she assured.

  Jack climbed into bed scooting to Tristan. His hand moved over the cast, and lightly touched the fingers extending from it. “What did you need to ask us?”

  “Did you get my skimboard from Aunt Meg’s?”

  Jack’s eyes speculatively raised, and Marissa wondered if he was afraid of inciting a riot right while the tired boy was so close to sleep. Jack’s truthful answer was a surprise since Marissa herself had just opened her mouth intent on somehow deferring the negative answer without an outright ‘no’.

  “No buddy,” Jack brushed at dark hair the same shade as his own. “She will put it up for you though. And it will be there next time we go.”

  “In six weeks,” Tristan grumbled, but it was an exhausted grumble, and his eyes closed. “It will be six weeks until I can ride the board again.”

  “We are going to have a lot of fun in the next six weeks buddy. You will probably not even think of your skimboard until we get back.”

  “The tour?” Tristan opened his eyes long enough to ask, and the sleepy gaze found his dad’s face.

  “Yeah,” Jack smiled. “The tour. We will be going to lots of cool places, sometimes on a giant bus, sometimes on a plane–”

  “I don’t want to go without Momma.”

  “Momma’s going,” Jack assured.

  Marissa nodded, but Tristan didn’t look her way. Her odd feeling, concerning the direction of the conversation, was justified when he replied to his father, “The lady said she couldn’t.”

  Jack’s bewildered eyes stayed on his son’s face as the next seconds passed. Marissa now understood, but did not know how to proceed with the explanation. Finally, Jack’s brown gaze moved to meet her eyes. Wariness was quickly seeping into his look replacing the confusion.

  “What’s he talking about?”

  Marissa swallowed a gulp and pressed a kiss to Tristan. “Night, night. I will be back in a few minutes.”

  Jack understood and followed. Marissa went downstairs, through the kitchen, the poolside seeming right for this discussion. She understood the draw of the water to Jack. Before moving, she had often sought the ocean for deep thought since it was right outside any exit of her job on a casino boat.

  Dragging the door open, she stepped out, and Jack impatiently questioned again, “What the hell was Tristan talking about?”

  The television was still on, only the current channel was now a satellite music station instead of Tristan Cam. The song, thumping through the speakers, sounded slightly hollow as it bounced over the water.

  “He is just confused. He thought –”

  Shadowy silhouettes in the water halted her words, and her heart thumped in ‘super creeped out’ mode. Dax called out, “I’m sorry. Really sorry. Thought you went to bed. Give us a second and we are out of here.”

  The two indiscernible shadows parted, and just before Marissa turned away, she noticed two glasses and a wine bottle at the edge of the pool.

  Dax and Randi? Maybe?

  Marissa went back inside the house intent on returning upstairs, but in the kitchen, Jack caught her arm, and she burst out the explanation. “Emma says that Randi’s likability is higher and suggested that I not be seen on tour.”

  Incredulously, his eyes widened ever so slightly, then dropped thoughtfully. They glinted with the same expression as when Tristan had opened this subject. “And you didn’t tell me this because...?”

  “Because she is just doing her job. And I thought it would create some mess that you don’t need stirred up right before a tour.”

  “Can this day get any worse?” Jack shoved his fingers through his hair and pivoted to pull open the fridge.

  “Don’t say that. You are just inviting worse.”

  Unappreciative of the comment, he glared as he popped the tab on a beer. “I am so tired of this shit. This micromanaging bullshit. From a freaking label. From people I thought were friends. From my freaking family.”

  “I’m not trying to micromanage you. I just thought you didn’t need the stress–”

  “Mariss my honey, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking to you.” The digital clock on the stove read three twenty-three, but Jack paced the kitchen. “I will get this sorted out. You are not hiding in some hotel room on tour.”

  Marissa refrained from telling him that if Emma had her way, she wouldn’t be going on tour. “I just want to do whatever you need me to do. I didn’t come out here to get in the way of your career.”

  “Fuck the career. I don’t want it if it doesn’t come with you. And that doesn’t mean hiding you in the freaking house like Chris’ wife. He’s single. You know that right? Not married. She doesn’t exist.”

  Jack was getting worked up, and she stared at her bare feet wanting as much to lay her tired head on a pillow, as she did to hear him out, to let him purge his turbulent feelings.

  She had already noticed that Chris and his wife were affectionately close and obviously in love when together. But, as Jack said, the woman was never publicly around.

  “I screwed up everything when I switched labels. It’s just that with my dad’s label, everything seemed about him. If he showed up to anything, it seemed like all the attention shifted to him. Even every interview, or article that was about my music had to make mention of him. I was never so glad to get picked up by JDS.”

  That explained the Loren’s not being at the drop party, and Jack being on a different label than the one his family owned.

  “The label put this whole band together and invited me into it. So, I reinvented myself as someone besides Matt Loren’s kid. It was great. Somehow, the connection was rarely made, and I was me, just me. When I met you, things with this label still seemed good. Then somehow, after I s
igned on again for another three record deal it all went to crap. Once this tour is done, I’m changing labels. To my parent’s.”

  She nodded, having heard it from him before they came to LA and from others over the last few days.

  “My parents have wanted to teach me the business. Now with Tristan, with a family, it just seems logical to do this and get out of the touring part. I will only do event shows if they are some place we all want to go. That’s of course if the new stuff is even noticed enough to be invited to a line up.”

  “It will be,” she assured and truly believed.

  “I’m thinking about the new identity being Jax with an X.”

  “I like it.”

  “Beau Jax.”

  “Beau?”

  “A play on my mom’s maiden name, Breaux.”

  Marissa literally bit the side of her tongue to keep from commenting, but in a few short weeks, Jack already seemed to know her better than anyone did.

  “You don’t like it.”

  With a shrug, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked longingly at the clock again. However, he was finally opening up to her, and she wasn’t about to prematurely end this closeness.

  “Mariss? When we do this, would you want to learn the business too?”

  Flutters of excitement became a breezy outlook. A career. No longer watching Jack from the sidelines, but being a part of the game. “Yeah. I would.”

  “Cool.” With a flip of a switch on the wall next to him, the room darkened. “Let’s go to bed Mariss. I have some kind of promo shoot tomorrow.”

  He curved an arm around her. They kissed all the way up the stairs. They indulged in one last lingering kiss at the foot of the bed. They climbed into bed, on either side of Tristan. Each rested a hand on their son as they fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 28

  “BEAU JAX?” OLIVIA’S SEMANTICS of the word sounded as doubtful as Marissa’s own thoughts.