Weathering Jack Storm

by Lisa Gillis

  The hum of a large crowd sounded as Jack walked with them to the mentioned hospitality room. Before entering, he paused to insure the burly man wearing a staff tee shirt who stood guard outside the door knew who they were.

  Like the dressing room, this room had a generous snack spread and comfortable furnishings. So far, they were the only ones in it. Bending, Jack kissed her whispering, “I love you. See you soon.”

  Tristan began to load up on cookies, and she didn’t have the heart to stop him since this was his first show experience.

  Once the band went on, she and Tristan would watch when they wanted from the stage wings. Jack had already promised to keep the lyrics cleaned up when he saw them there. They had laughed one night as he ‘growled’ the alternate words to her. Words never clearly heard anyway, so the audience would not know the difference.

  The one song that was explicit and clear was number eight on the set-list, and she knew to have Tristan out of hearing range by then.

  “When these were written, I never thought I would have to worry about my child hearing them.” One night, prior to the tour, he had become reflective as they talked in bed.

  “Well, you will be changing names. Chances are he won’t remember Jackal until he’s old enough for you to tell him.” she had comforted. Even so, his look had seemed to stay conscious ridden.

  Although Jack had amazing song writing capabilities, she had been surprised when he mentioned that almost half of Jackal’s songs were from a publishing catalog. “It’s just how it is done,” he had shrugged.

  Chris’s wife entered the room breaking up the meditative thoughts. They talked for a few minutes, then all pushed in sound reducing ear plugs before ascending the steps to the stage.

  Jack had said there would be a stool for Tristan marked with an X, and sure enough, it was waiting with two pieces of tape forming the letter.

  Jack was immersed in his music, and every muscle in her body froze acutely attuned to his performance.

  Perspiration was just beginning to sheen his face and arms. She knew the wristbands were to protect his fingers from getting slick with sweat and slipping on the strings. Her eyes moved from the leather bands to his fingers caressing and commanding the sounds he wanted from his instrument.

  He had the same perceptive prickle for her as she did when he came near, and he looked her way. The smile of greeting he bestowed was intimate even in this stadium of tens of thousands.

  When his gaze drifted back to the thousands before him, she ripped her eyes away long enough to check on Tristan and found herself awed by his response.

  When confronted with something unusual, Tristan’s dark eyes normally widened into saucers. At this moment, they were plates and his mouth was gaping open. Chris’ wife was also entertained more by Tristan’s reaction then by the show, and their giggles became lost in the decibel of the music.

  Jack growled, howled, and screamed his verses into the microphone, and since she was in on the secret she heard a few of the lyric substitutions.

  A set list lay taped to the floor, and since she had listened to the new Jackal album many times since the day he had left on tour she was able to pick out the song they were on and follow.

  On the seventh song, she turned to leave and found the area now filled with a dozen other spectators. Waving to Chris’ wife, she cautiously held Tristan’s hand as they descended the stairs. A photographer had her on red alert, but he never deviated his camera from the performance, and she relaxed in relief realizing there were no paparazzi in this area.

  Jack came directly from the last encore, and she happily endured his sweaty embrace. Tristan hung back, mutely accessing his father, and only when Jack spoke to him did he nod or speak back. Jack flicked worried eyes to her, and she wanted to explain, but they were interrupted by the room filling.

  Her guess was that Tristan was experiencing the same type of awe she, herself, had felt when seeing Jack doing what he did best. Seeing it was like seeing a person she had come to know possessed by body snatchers.

  In deference to the shower he needed, instead of hugging Tristan, Jack ruffled his son’s hair instead. With another quick kiss to her, he was off to do his after show meet and greets.

  She tried not to imagine the boobs and commando skirt wearers seeking pictures, autographs, and mostly—the bang by a certain rock star that they would not get.

  When Jack returned, over an hour later, he was carrying a shirt and wearing none.

  “I know what you are thinking,” he defended himself against whatever expression she wore. “But I just took the shirt I had on, off two seconds ago, and you will soon see why.”

  The shirt rustled over his head settling over his torso, and the word ‘SECURITY’ across the back and front had her smiling.

  “You never told me this secret,” she accused as he stuffed his hair in a cap and put on the plastic shades.

  “Because this is the first time I’ve ever done it. Chris came up with the idea.”

  When he finished, he blended with the event staff members she had seen roaming the halls, and with a look in a mirror, he was satisfied as well. “Let’s blow this joint!”

  The disguise worked well venue after venue. Evening after evening, she watched his performance, practically as starstruck as his fans, and she wondered why she had been leery of touring with him.

  She rarely had to see him near another woman, and the idea of him meeting and mingling with fans, before and after the show, became no more than a niggling thought.

  CHAPTER 37

  THE DAYS AND NIGHTS became a blur of the bus, once in a while a plane, arenas, stadiums, and hotels.

  Sometimes after the show they slept in a hotel. Sometimes, if they had to be on the road right away, they slept in the bus and then checked into the hotel in the next city in time to clean up and make it to the next show.

  She had worried over Tristan in vain. Jack had thought of every detail accordingly adjusting the band rider. It now included significant requirements such as the contact info of a pediatrician on twenty-four seven call in each city down to the minor requests like the boy’s favorite juices stocked in the hotel fridges.

  The tiny boy easily took to life on the bus, playing games with whoever was awake on the game system, watching t.v., or playing on his tablet. He happily ate the junk food of the road, and spent hours watching out the window. He was the darling of the bus, and she was surprised at how easily the rest of them adjusted to him when it came to language and other considerations. The habitual cursers of the crew had even made up alternate curse words.

  Their bus normally housed Liz, and Chris when his wife was around, and the random manager or two. The rolling home had been dubbed ‘Mary’ because any partying stayed with the other bus.

  The very back of the bus was a lounge area where the couches formed a U with two flat screens on the wall.

  In this area, on one of the bus days, she was reading on the iPad while Tristan’s attention was on his game. Liz was awake in the front of the bus, but the rest slept.

  Jack hopped from his bunk to the floor, and after padding to the bathroom, came to flop down beside her. Gradually, as he checked his phone, he lay with his head in her lap. He was receiving text after text, which probably played a part in waking him.

  “What’s going on?” she wondered, letting her fingers slid through his hair.

  “Radio show in the morning.” His thumbs continued their swipes at the screen. Slowing his motions, he tilted his face to the blackout window panels that she had not bothered to open. “Wait, why is Tristan up? Is it morning?”

  “Um, it is two. In the afternoon.”

  Sheepishly, he continued to stare vaguely at his phone without acknowledging the next text.

  Gently, she explained, “It is Wednesday. No show tonight. And we should be about an hour from the hotel.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He shot off another text then tossed aside his phone. When the next thought struck, guilty dark eyes ran ove
r her face. “I’ve been asleep ten hours?”

  With a smile, she touched her lips to his. “Mmh Hmm. Feel better?”

  “Much.” Bouncing up, he took one of the controllers, and she began to read again as he and Tristan played.

  Their arrival at the hotel was low key. Their accommodations were normally on the club level floor, and this time was no exception. Marissa never failed to be over-whelmed by the suites being larger than her home in Mississippi. Jack always took it all in stride, and always, immediately upon entering an empty hotel room, flipped on a television. She often wondered if the television had been to fill the silence when he was on tour on his own.

  In this particular hotel, their suite had a child’s room with a kid sized table and chairs, a shelf of books, and an assortment of electronic toys as well as puzzles and board games.

  Jack lingered with Tristan in this room exclaiming over each discovery, and she could hear them laughing as she fell over the bed glad to be in unmoving quarters. The second their luggage was delivered, she pilfered through it for fresh clothing eager to shower away the miles on the road. Jack offered to shower Tristan, and he must have taken a quick one as well because they all emerged with wet heads around the same time.

  Dressed and blow dried, they entered the floor lounge and were shown to a table overlooking the city. Club floor restaurants, shops, and bars always ensured guests with special privacy needs were accommodated accordingly. Aside from the band, and some of the band crew, there were occasional other elite guests in these exclusive areas.

  “Do they have pizza here?”

  “I imagine,” Jack drawled, exchanging an amused look over the menu with her. Even places that did not have pizza on the menu managed a single serving one for Tristan, son of Jack Storm. Tristan, thankfully, still did not grasp that his every wish could be a command.

  “What looks good to you, Mariss?”

  Her stomach had been filled with nothing but fast food and junk food for twenty four hours. Intent on the selections of real food, she did not notice the trio of young men approaching their table. Startled, she almost dropped the menu and then pasted on a smile prepared to politely watch as Jack autographed some something.

  “Hi, Jack Storm, right?” The leader of the well-dressed guys spoke, and Jack curved a smile courteously putting out his hand. They exchanged greetings, but things took an unusual turn when no pictures or autographs were immediately requested. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to her. “So that means you must be Marissa.”

  Four pair of eyes if she were to count Jack’s in the total. Tristan was staring at the guys themselves.

  Their looks were respectful, however definitely more awed by her presence then she would expect from fans of Jack.

  “Would you mind…I mean, we were wondering if you wouldn’t mind a picture?” The leader turned back to Jack as he indicated Marissa. “I won’t touch her at all, man, I promise.” Edgy laughs came from him and his friends. “Just stand behind her?” Another look to Marissa. “If it is not a bother?” And while she gaped, Jack also did. This was a new request.

  “Of me?” she finally asked, and reached for her goblet of water to wet her croaky throat.

  “If it is not a bother?” One of them hopefully repeated, and another explained, “We are fans. Of Jackal. And you.”

  “Of me?” Certain that she was being set up, she looked beyond the trio to Liz and Reed, but they were immersed in conversation at their own table, paying no mind to this side of the room. Helplessly, she looked to Jack, and he spoke.

  “I’m sorry guys. I do mind. My family is my family, you know?”

  “Of course. No problem. Enjoy your evening.”

  After nervously draining her water level down, she risked a glance at Tristan who was absorbed with the various crackers and bread in the entrée basket, before whispering, “What do you think that was all about?”

  Jack lifted a shoulder, but their waiter moved in questioning their order and interrupting the speculation.

  She mentally shrugged it off as random, but it was a prelude to what was to come only a couple of nights later after a show. They exited the stadium, and on that particular night, around two dozen fans had been allowed into the private bus area. These folks were generally winners of radio contests or acquainted with someone well known enough to make it to the meet and greet and then the private exit.

  The screams had just settled from Chris and Reed’s exit, and began anew when she and Jack with Tristan stepped out and made their way to the bus. Tristan’s latest getup was sunglasses and a hoodie that they pulled low on his forehead until he was safely behind the walls of the bus or vehicle they were leaving in.

  “Jack!” The yells became more fervent with each step, and her steps faltered when she heard her own name. “Marissa!” A male voice, another, and another. “Marissa! I love you! Marissa!”

  Holding Tristan’s hands, she lifted him the first step into the bus, and felt Jack’s hands on her hips behind her as he aided her steps.

  Tristan went directly for the fridge, and despite the half a dozen juices he had downed before, during, and after the show, he held a juice box up for her approval. Preoccupied, she nodded as she peered out the window at the small crowd while still trying to fathom what had just happened.

  Sometimes it was a weird phenomenon, watching people who could not watch back due to the privacy glass.

  Coming to stand beside her, Liz popped the cap on a beer and offered a grin as she spoke of the male fans. “So I guess I’m sharing with you now.”

  “Yeah…tonight anyway…” Marissa looked around for Jack, but she and Liz had this part of the bus to themselves, and she could hear the guys whooping over a video game in the back.

  James boarded the bus at that moment. As well as being a manager, he seemed to be taking on publicist duties as well.

  Emmajesty was no longer with Jackal. Jack had confronted the publicist with his suspicions, and Emma had actually been proud of her leaks to the press. This had led to her dismissal in her duties with the band. The scene had gone down during the weeks that she had dodged the tour, and she had heard bits and pieces of it then through Jack.

  “Alright losers, listen up!” James raised his voice to be heard in the back as he advanced that direction.

  Automatically, Marissa followed, prepared to pull Tristan out of the line of fire if the band was about to be bitched out, or if it went the other way and they bitched at James for whatever was about to come. James put on a good show, but he was nowhere near as abrasive as Emmajesty had been.

  “We have a senator’s son, a couple of his friends, and dates outside—”

  “Already met them. Signed everything. Took some wicked pics.” Reed and Chris chorused.

  “They want to hang out on the bus for a drink.”

  “Dude, no way. I’m not drinking tonight. I just want to chill.” The chorus rang out again. Jack and Liz were the only ones remaining silent. Jack seemingly intent on the game he was playing with Tristan, but she knew better. He was tired. Hungry. These days he just wanted to pile up after the shows.

  “Five minutes!” James barked, and Marissa had to move to let him by in the narrow confines. “Happy faces!”

  Apparently, this bus was not leaving the complex to meet up with the other bus until this thing was done.

  “Fubby lucky…” Reed cursed.

  Like always, the few times fans came onto the bus, she stayed behind in the back lounge with Tristan, while the others drifted to the front. Greetings and laughter soon commenced, and she smiled to herself thinking of what a good job the band did of making fans feel welcome, even when they were exhausted and in a non-partying mood.

  “Marissa,” James called out to her, just before he pulled back the panel. Curious, she looked up and saw Jack approaching also.

  “What’s going on,” Jack inquired, just as James made an unusual request.

  “Come on up. Someone wants to meet you.”

  She
looked to Jack, but he appeared as perplexed as she felt, and immediately he went into his family protection mode. “James, what the hell?”

  “The senator’s son wants to meet Marissa.”

  “No. She does not have to do this.” Jack trained his gaze directly into her eyes. “This has nothing to do with her.”

  “She is on the tour, so yes, in a way it does. If someone wants to meet her and she is here, there is no reason why she shouldn’t.”

  As they continued the low decibel argument, she whispered to Tristan to stay put, and ended their skirmish by attempting to push past them. Something odd was going on, and she intended to get to the bottom of it before the night was over.

  Probably, it would be as simple as later typing her name in an internet search engine. At least, whatever it was seemed to be good. She was being loved and not spit on.

  Jack grabbed her arm to stop her, but she had already been seen, and the young man beamed a wide smile.

  She went through the introductions, Jack handed her a drink and kept an arm around her waist. The guy faltered through his explanation.

  “…was in a football accident…long recovery…if it is not too much to ask, could you write something to him?”

  He unrolled a glossy print on the table, and the room became dead silent, quieter than it had been during the sad explanation. All eyes swung to her. Wary looks from the band, a guilty look from Jack, and hopeful looks from the young group of fans.

  Pivoting away from all of those expectant gazes, she pulled open the fridge surveying the contents for something to do. Her fingers tightened on the canned drink already in her hand, and she took a sip. Jack’s hand moved to her shoulder and the light squeeze of his fingers was meant to be comforting, and he quietly spoke.

  “Mariss, you don’t have—those are your private pictures—our pictures. Just go on back if you want and I will explain to him—”

  Pasting a smile on her face, she whipped back around to Jack’s birthday present that was somehow no longer only digital and accepted the proffered marker. “Sure. What is your brother’s name?”