by Lisa Gillis
“Anything. You know that...Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you...”
The day felt lonely, and lonelier still, when he didn’t call to Skype after the show.
Moreover, he didn’t call or text the next day, so she sent a text the day after.
Call me later?
Sent 10:00 AM
After waiting hours for an answer, she sent another.
Did you get my text?
Sent 4:05 PM
And another.
What are we doing?
Sent 2:01 AM
His answering text stung like a slap.
JACK
Taking a break like you wanted.
2:02 AM
You know that is not what I meant
Sent 2:04 AM
JACK
Whatever
2:04 AM
Barely, she restrained herself from thumbing a four-letter word into the phone, and instead she fingered a four-letter gesture at the phone.
Finally, she cried, the sobs jerking her body, itching her eyes, and stuffing up her nose. How the hell could something so good go so bad so fast?
Six hours later, his ringtone had her throwing off her depressed tent of blankets to grab the phone, but without preamble, he asked to speak to Tristan. Lurking in her bedroom doorway, she listened as her son giggled at whatever Jack said and offered up Bally’s latest escapades.
“I love you, Daddy. I miss you too...yes sir. Bye, Daddy.”
Her heart clenched as she eavesdropped. Tristan soon skipped down the hall to return her phone, and she eagerly grabbed it, but the call was ended. Her control snapped, and she jabbed ‘Call’ but was not surprised when voicemail clicked on.
“Listen you son of a bitch. You are a son of a bitch!” Okay, she really should have thought her dialogue through. Pausing, she focused on the print of the sheets while struggling for clarity. “What right do you have to be mad at me for not bringing a four-year old on tour to watch his dad be groped by groupies?” That was unfair, but it just shot out of her mouth.
Breathe Marissa, breathe. Her heart was thumping painfully.
“You lied to me. You said you knew Tristan was yours. You brought us to LA as one big happy family then sneaked off for a paternity test. You asshole...” Clicking ‘End’ before she said something else stupid, she collapsed on her bed.
His return call came directly, and even though she had waited for that ring for days, she obstinately hit ignore. The beep of a voicemail did not follow, and she remembered his stubbornness when it came to leaving a message.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to talk, I said I didn’t have a message.’ His words from that day at the hospital taunted her.
She longed to call Jack again, but what would she say? What was the use if she hadn’t changed her mind about sitting out the tour, and he hadn’t made an apology for his reaction?
When a week passed, it seemed as if she weren’t only sitting out tour, she was sitting out so much more.
Their love, their life together, was on ice.
She didn’t know where she and Jack were going from here. The tour had him stressed to the max. What kind of relationship did they have, though, if it couldn’t survive those stresses?
CHAPTER 34
JACK
I miss you
3:32 AM
Marissa smacked the phone into its dock and rolled away from it to sulk into the darkness. A fresh slew of tears filled her eyes. Was she actually supposed to respond to a middle of the night text when it was their first communication after almost two weeks apart? This fight, or whatever it was, had gone way beyond text intervention.
Jack had continued to call or Skype Tristan almost every day, but didn’t use her number. Two days after their fight, a phone addressed to Tristan had arrived in the mail. A four-year old with a phone! It obviously kept her fiancé from having to go through her to talk to their son.
Did this mean they were broken up ?
She cried or teared up every day at some point. At some point every day, she rebuked herself for falling headfirst into a fantasy. Foolishly, based on some physical and imagined spiritual connection, she had taken off to California with a man she had known only a couple of weeks–even though that man was the father of her child.
It was understandable why celebrities continuously made the headlines with failed relationships if they were all bipolar, narcissistic jerks like Jack. Unfortunately, their son would always tie her to Jack in some way.
Her life had fallen into a pattern similar to the days before Jack. Only, there was no forgetting him.
Even though she had relocated, her job status had still technically been on family leave. When the casino had called to update, she had made a rash decision to take her old shift back.
Sanity.
The hours of slot machines ringing in her ears, and the activity of counting craps or dealing blackjack left little time for thinking. As far as she was concerned, that was a good thing. Anything that kept her from her own thoughts was a good thing.
Olivia had been a great support, and Marissa opened up to her mother when helping out while she recovered. Clayton had begun dating Gina from the casino, and both seemed intent on keeping her spirits up.
“Marissa,” Clayton’s voice sounded from behind causing her to jump from her reverie. “Tap out pretty lady.” Clay was still a flirt, and before moving away, he addressed her table of black jack players. “Isn’t Miss Rissa the prettiest woman in the room?”
Only because Gina wasn’t yet in the room, and she smiled at this private joke between the three of them. Gina was as big a flirt as Clay and was as outrageous in her behavior as he was. It worked for them. In a way that she knew it would never have worked between her and Jack
It felt strange to take orders from Clayton. A few months before Tristan’s surgery, she had been promoted to a gaming supervisor. Now, in coming back to work, she came as a rotating dealer.
Clearing her hands, she clapped out and weaved her way through the busy room to the employee exit. During the fifteen-minute break, she checked her texts and re-read the one from Jack twelve hours ago.
I miss you
She scrolled up to the one above it.
‘Whatever’
Then on up.
‘Taking a break like you said’
Then the one before.
‘I’ve been thinking about your ass all day :P’
There in backwards order, in a few texts, was the phenomenon. Everything had been fine, and then it just wasn’t. How did that even happen?
But she knew the truth. Everything hadn’t been fine. They had been happy. Even in some sort of love. Yet, it had only been a surface shine hiding everything deeper. Things she didn’t want to think about. The strip club. The paternity test. Many little personality conflicts between the two of them.
Break passed quickly. Upon reentering the pit and tapping back in at her assigned blackjack table, she beamed a friendly smile when seeing a couple of familiar faces seated. Several locals frequented this table and this game. One who always wore a Striker Chemicals hat had been coming after his work shift ended for as long as she could remember before her move away. Always friendly, he and another local guy kept her entertained with a lively conversation.
Her polite laughs were soon real, and as she dealt, she had her head thrown back chuckling at one of ‘Striker’s’ jokes when her eyes fell on–
Jack.
Jack was too far away for a positive recognition of his face, but she would know that swagger and that demeanor in any crowd. Currently, he was scanning the packed room, and she quickly dropped her eyes loath to meet his gaze when he found her.
Through her lashes, she sneaked another look and was reminded of watching him walk that hospital hallway the day of Tristan’s surgery. How far they had come together, and yet the feeling was suddenly full circle—Jack walking back into her life and the uncertainty that came with each step.
Spotting her, he veered st
raight to the table, and her muscles stiffened bracing for a confrontation, but he only lowered himself to a chair. Pulling out some bills, he laid them on the felt of the table and pushed them toward her.
Politely, he hobnobbed with his neighboring players, and her senses soaked up the deep rumble of his voice. Following procedure, she called out his money amount before locking it in the box, and the chips fell together with a soft clack as she counted them out by stacking. Warily, she pushed the stacks to him knowing she should just signal Clayton and ask to tap out.
Still, Jack had begun this figurative game, and she was literally ready to see where he would go with it.
“Place your bets.” Passing her hand over the table, she listened as Striker and Jack continued their conversation. The third player was sipping at his drink and keeping an interested ear open.
“You seem familiar bro.” Striker eyed Jack while casting his ante with the rest.
“I get that a lot.” Jack shot a casual grin, and she saw him reassuringly touch the cap hiding his long locks of hair.
“I bet you do. I bet you do.”
At this knowing tone, she shot Striker a look, as did Jack. With a secret smile, the man tapped the table indicating a hit from the deck. It was obvious that even though Jack had downplayed his appearance, he had been made.
Jack in turn tapped the table and continued through a few low cards before she busted him with the dealer deck.
“Too bad man. Too bad,” Striker commiserated.
Jack nodded in answer and flagged a cocktail server while Striker held out his hand in introduction. It was the first time Marissa had ever heard his name, but she knew he would always be Striker in her mind. Now, on a first name basis, the local man asked, “What brings you to Gulf Port, Mississippi, my man?”
“A much needed break.” Jack paused to order water when the server made her way over, then finished, “Sometimes you just have to stop and sort things out, you know?”
“Sounds like woman trouble.”
“Mmh.” Jack nodded in agreement and silently scooped in his winnings as she shuffled for the next hand.
“Ain’t it always? Ain’t it always?” Striker shook his head.
Deftly, Marissa dealt, snapping the cards from the deck and remaining silent as Jack continued his own game—whatever it was.
Striker tapped the table twice before giving the stay signal, and she moved to Jack who seemed to be staring over her shoulder. When an uncomfortable span of time passed, she had to break her stubborn silence.
“Sir?”
“Sir!” He seemed to be choking back a laugh, and she felt her face heat in both embarrassment and anger.
“Something funny?” She felt her brows lift in a challenge and professionally forced them to relax back into a normal position.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been addressed as ‘sir,’ by anyone except my son.”
With more skill than she handled the deck and dealt each card, Jack cleverly played the Tristan card.
A significant emotional strategy for so many reasons. The spawn of passionate sex. The source of shared maternal and paternal feelings. The light of both of their lives.
She actually felt limp when those incredible eyes hit hers, and he murmured, “Hit me.”
Her lips fell apart reading more than one meaning in those two words. ‘I need to hit that, Mariss.’ On more than one occasion, he had caught her as she passed by, usually at the pool, and whispered for her ears alone that sexy phrase. Ridding the image, she flipped a card on the table.
“Hit me...”
Okay, she was not imagining that. That was the husky voice he used when his lips were against her ear. Shakily, she flipped another card and hungered over his smug smile.
“As much as I love saying that, I guess I’m good for now.” Jack hovered his flattened hand over his cards and shot her another cocky smile.
Moving her gaze, from the face that had her insides aflutter, to his generous card total, she flipped her own cards and busted. As she counted the pay out, the rest of the table, apparently feeling the chemistry between her and Jack, snickered from his comment.
“Yeah, my woman and I parted ways many years ago.” Striker struck up conversation again as Marissa hit the button on the card shuffler.
“Sorry to hear,” Jack came back, and his next words put her heart on high alert. “I aim to do everything I can to get mine back.”
A middle-aged man took a seat at the table, and she verbally reported the cash amount and heard Clayton’s okay. With a numb greeting, she exchanged the newcomer’s money for chips.
“Do it,” Striker encouraged Jack. “You don’t want to be old and alone like me.”
“I’m just stupid. But I warned her about that.”
When his water arrived, Jack paused to tip the waitress and then rolled the corners up to peek at his cards.
“Ain’t we all?” Striker consoled and sent Marissa a smile. “All men are stupid. Right, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know about all, but I can sure think of—a few.” Biting her tongue before she replied “one,” which would secretly single Jack out, she tried to play nice since every indication so far was that he came in peace.
Jack’s hand busted, and as she raked his chips toward her, Striker joked, “There she goes, taking your money again.”
Reflexively, Jack pushed his ante forward and cocked his half grin. “Yeah, she is good at that.”
Freezing in the midst of stacking the chips into the tray, she shot her look to his face, and immediate guilt flashed his expression.
“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t. I was talking strictly about this right here.” His eyes pinned hers willing her to believe, and she did.
Conceivably, the remark had been a slip up, something she never would have taken personally had their horrible fight never happened. Yet, it had happened. This comment, no matter how innocent, brought all those black feelings back.
The rest of the table eyed this odd tension between dealer and player, and she concentrated on the chips again.
Over the last few minutes, and especially now, as she struggled to reign in her bitter memories and emotions, her table had slowed.
Because Clayton had known her for years, he knew something was not right and moved to her side. “Marissa? Need to tap out?”
Shaking her head, she shuffled the deck. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Considerately, he hovered, astutely knowing something was not right, and he looked for anyone who might be giving her trouble. His touch on her shoulder was light, brief, and professional, but it did not escape Jack’s attention. The identification on his vest didn’t go unnoticed either; she saw Jack’s gaze zero in on it.
Clayton was a name Jack knew well from texts that occasionally rattled her phone.
“What are you doing here Marissa?” A glower clouded Jack’s face, and his voice rumbled like thunder on a very distant horizon. Except he was very close. Only a table separated them. Suddenly, his proximity made her feel even more emotionally vulnerable.
“Working...”
“If there is anyone who doesn’t need to work it is you.”
“That is where you are wrong.” Their eyes locked together, and her chin swung to a defiant angle. “I owe someone ten thousand dollars, and I intend to pay every penny back.”
“No you don’t, and no you won’t.” His voice was weary but firm. “Tap out, or whatever you need to do here. Because we are leaving.”
“This is him?” Clayton let the personal question slip before catching himself. His voice rang with the authority of a boss and the empathy of a friend. “You’re tapped out.”
“No, I’m fine. He was just leaving...” Finally, able to tear her gaze from the pull of Jack’s assessing eyes, she sent an apologetic look around her table, and a flush crept up her neck when she realized what a spectacle she and Jack had become.
“Not without you Mariss my honey.” Jack’s assurance was heated, husky, and hau
nting in its familiarity.
Folding his arms across his chest, Clayton pulled rank. “Riss, you need to sort this out, and this is not the place to do it.” Then in concern he added, “Or you won’t be able to come back.”
“Oh she won’t be coming back.” Jack’s assurance was also menacing. “Should I make sure of that right now? Will a big scene–”
“Jack, stop! Please, stop!” Humiliated, she appealed to him, and infuriated, she assaulted him with a look that halted his words mid-sentence.
To the patrons at her stalled table, Clayton was professional and friendly as he passed out tickets for a complimentary meal. “We will have another dealer momentarily.” To Marissa, he leaned in and whispered, “I can stay with you if you need backup.”
“Get the hell away from my wife, asshole!” Jack’s frosty tone rapidly heated. When he breached the invisible line between staff and players, Clayton further blocked him with a well-placed step. Jack’s features contorted in fury, and he warned, “Mariss, I am about three seconds away from punching his face in. If he touches you again, he’s dead. If he doesn’t put some distance between the two of you, he’s dead.”
The word dead used in this sense was a trigger word in many places, and a casino was one of them. Wanting to diffuse the situation before Jack brought on more heat than he intended, she hurriedly prepared to leave the table.
Her training kicked in, and she turned back to hold her empty hands palm up for the camera’s which were inset into the ceiling.
Security moved in fast, the burly men intent on keeping disruptions out of the playing environment, and she shouldered around Clayton to reach Jack first. Pushing her idiot man toward the exit, she held her hand up in a mannerly halting motion to the men in uniform whom she was on friendly terms with, but they continued to advance.
“Please, it’s okay. We are leaving,” she assured. A mild panic tingled her nerves at the thought of Jack being detained and his identity going on record, or worse, a police record.