by Ward, Susan
I am an ex-groupie from the wrong side of the tracks who has fucked more than her share of men, in vile and sometimes humiliating circumstances. I have a reputation, one I used to be proud of, one that made me on the A-list in the LA music scene, but now I wish I could run quickly away from it. Jack has a reputation too, though more of a flaxen glow kind rather than a punch-line of a joke told in a men’s locker-room. Jackson Parker is a beloved American icon. The entire world loves Jack; a living, breathing, and much adored music legend. Nope, Linda Cray from Reseda doesn’t fit long-term in that picture in any way.
I kiss him and his eyes open. He makes a lazy stretch, raking one hand through his tussled, golden waves, drops a light kiss on my lips and reaches for the phone.
“Talk to me,” he mumbles and then yawns.
I try to pull away from him on the bed. His arm behind me curls me into him, easing me back onto his chest. The voice on the other end gets loud enough I can hear it. A thick, gravelly Irish accent. “…where the fuck are you? You better not be in Santa Barbara surfing. You missed the fucking sound check, asshole.”
Jack laughs, his muscles shimmying beneath me. “Christ, you’re worse than having a wife, Liam.”
My eyes round. Liam Ferguson is Jack’s oldest friend and bass player. So, Jack blew off sound check before tonight’s concert to be with me.
Jack looks over top of me to the beside clock. “Crap, it’s seven. I’m in LA. Don’t know where. A car was supposed to pick me up. I’ll be there on time. I don’t know. Somewhere in the downtown area. I’m just where they dropped me.”
I whisper, “The Hyatt. West Hollywood.”
Jack laughs again. “I’ve been informed I’m at the Hyatt. I hit LA six hours ago. It’s all good.”
“Mind telling me why you jumped the coop again?”
The coop. Jack’s been on tour with the band nearly four months, and we’ve existed in an alternate universe. Meeting here and there in hotels apart from the band and the giant entourage that travels with him, when the tour dates make it possible to escape into our own private lairs. Stolen days of just us. It amazes me how well Jack keeps us a secret, and there is a hint of suspicion as to why he’s doing that. It’s not something we’ve discussed. I feel my mood dip. There’s a lot we don’t discuss.
I kiss him on the chest, lay my cheek against his heart, focusing on its steady beat rather than the rapid telephone conversation above my head and try to chase away that nagging negative voice of my inner-self I too rarely can control. Shut up, Linda. Don’t ruin a good thing by over thinking. Enjoy it while you can. It will end soon enough.
It’s been a glorious ride loving Jack. When I walked out of his life in October, I never expected Jack to hold on and keep us going. But he did. First man in my life not to disappoint me. I rub my cheek against him. Thank god he held on. One week—one miserably long week of second guessing my choice and regret was all I needed to know I’d made a mistake ending us— and that was all he waited before he let me know he wouldn’t let me walk away from him. He just showed up late one night at my apartment near USC, unannounced, and we’ve been together ever since.
Well, our version of together. Two people who share what time they can together, and nothing more. Simple. Defined. Uncomplicated.
Jack’s laughter pulls me from my thoughts. He says, “Spending a few days with my girlfriend away from you buggers, if you really must know. No worries, Liam.”
His girlfriend? Jeez, it’s the first time Jack’s called me that. It’s sounds weird given what our relationship is.
“So when do I get to meet this bird you are always hopping the coop to see?”
“Tonight. Linda will be at the show,” Jack says. Without saying goodbye, he drops the phone back into the rest. He sighs. “Oh fuck. I wish I didn’t have a thing tonight.”
Thing. Only Jackson Parker would call seventeen thousand people at the LA Forum waiting for him to come on stage a thing. From another man it would come off as false modesty, but that’s not Jack. His life is neatly organized into parts with meaning and things, and there is rarely any logic as to what falls into each category. And I’m definitely not sure which category I fall into. Not even after the girlfriend remark.
I make a face. “Girlfriend?”
“What am I supposed to call you? Besides, I like the sound of that.” He smiles and brushes the hair back from my face. “I’ve got ninety minutes. What do you say to a quickie?”
His eyes are gleaming in that way he has. All man, with a spark of boy peeking out. I’m not completely passed the girlfriend remark or his assumption that I’m going to the concert tonight. I never do. Why would Jack think tonight would be any different?
He starts kissing his way down by body. My flesh reminds me of our six weeks apart by responding with lightning speed to each touch and kiss. I try not to surrender, but I do anyway as my body arches up into the play of his lips. “Quickie, huh? If you start there it definitely won’t be quick. And you are trying to divert me. You don’t want to talk. I’m on to you.”
He lifts his face enough from my navel to peek up at me. “I hope not. I’d like to think I keep you guessing a little from time to time.”
He balances himself between my legs and runs his tongue up the inside of my thigh, making little darts and flicks between the kisses, stopping near, but not there. My body tightens in delicious anticipation.
“Do you want to talk? Do you want me to stop?” he whispers and drops a kiss on my perfectly shaved mound.
I take in a quick breath and shake my head. I arch upward into his mouth as my fingers curl around the sheets. His tongue flicks on the inside of my labia and dances across my clit.
The phone rings again and I groan, thrashing my head on the pillow, this time in frustration. Countdown to show time interruptions. I try to lose myself in the tantalizing play of his mouth and can’t. Ring.
I lift my head up from the pillow and look down at him. Jack is oblivious to everything but me. That alone should get me into the moment. Damn, why doesn’t it? Why do I tense the second the outside world knocks at our door?
“Are you going to get that?” I whisper, half panting and half groaning.
Jack’s hands slide up my hips and his face tilts so he can see me.
“Just ignore it. They’ll go away.”
Another kiss. Another ring. Another groan.
Jack laughs and moves up my body to kiss me. “OK. You are too impatient and definitely too easily distracted. A man could take that as an insult, Linda.”
I roll my eyes. “A man should take it that I want to focus only him.”
He drops a peck on my nose. “Good answer.”
He reclines on his side beside me and reaches for the phone. “Jack,” he says, almost as a growl, as he makes a silly face at me.
I pout slightly and smile, but the smile slips from my face. Jack is suddenly tense and the light in his eyes has changed and he’s eased away from me.
He sits on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his waves. “Do we have to discuss this now? All right. Hold on.”
He punches the hold button on the phone and takes his jeans from the floor. He pulls them up onto his hips but doesn’t button them. I frown, wondering what this is about.
He kisses my curls. “I’ll make this quick. I promise.” And then he’s into the suite’s living room and he’s back on the phone again.
I sit up in bed, hugging my knees. It’s not like Jack to take a call away from me, and that ugly thing called suspicion destroys my emotional calm with a machete.
The minutes tick by and his voice gets louder, more agitated, in a manner not like him. I can’t make sense of the conversation, but whatever is going on is not good. Crap, we only a have few days together each time we are together, and I know it’s petty, but I’m suddenly peeved by the interruption.
I climb from the sheets and pad across the room, pausing at the closet to take out the cottony-soft long white complimentary robe. I
jerk it into place and tie it once.
I hang back at the bedroom doorway, watching. Jack is sitting on the couch, hunched over the phone, elbows on knees, and while I can’t see his face, he looks like a man who’s just been kicked in the gut really hard.
He wanted privacy for this and I’m invading, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let whatever this is get between us without being between us. I know I’m just his back street lover—god I hate that term— but Jack is everything to me, and while the personal boundaries, the no-invasion zones of our lives outside of our affair are more than understood by me, no power on earth could keep me from stepping in when he needs me in his no-invasion zones.
“I’m in California for four days. I’ll be there tomorrow,” Jack insists hotly.
Shit, what the fuck is happening?
“You’re the one who insisted upon this arrangement, Walter,” Jack counters vehemently into the phone. “I’ve done everything I can to appease you. Not because you threaten me, but because Lena wouldn’t want this, and this constant battling is the last thing Chrissie needs. Hasn’t she been through enough?”
Oh crap, not this again. Only one thing can turn calm, happy Jack into worried and angry Jack in the blink of an eye: his father-in-law Walter—or should I say ex-father-in-law since Jack’s wife, Lena, is dead?—and the never ending argument over how to raise Jack’s daughter, Chrissie.
Jack’s palm cups his forehead, his long fingers pressing in on his temples. Into the receiver he says, “I would have been there yesterday, but you told me not to come. I let you have your way. I try to work with you. I put Chrissie in boarding school and I let you have her for the summer. It’s the only reason I’m touring. You know that. If Chrissie were home, I’d be home. Don’t lay this one at my feet.”
He has that look: a man all alone in a bubble of brilliance and misery. My eyes fix intensely on his face. But you’re not alone, Jack. I’m here. We suddenly feel worlds apart. But then again, we are world apart. God, I hate when I’m reminded of that.
Jack sets down the receiver. A visible shudder passes along the long line of his body. The only outward sign of his tension and inner turmoil. Christ, when is this battle over his daughter going to end with his father-in-law? I thought a cease-fire had been called now that Jack capitulated and put Chrissie in boarding school like Walter wanted. Clearly, things are heating up here all over again. I wonder what’s happened, this time, with Chrissie to tip the balance.
My heart clenches as I watch Jack. He is sitting with his head tilted back, head against the cushions; the peaceful soul is at war with the tortured one.
It’s a tough situation all around. I can understand Walter worrying over his granddaughter’s life now that his own daughter is dead. On some level, I respect Walter’s worry over Chrissie since my own dad never gave a shit about me. But crap, a blind man should be able to see that Jack adores his daughter and would always do the best for her.
I cross the room and sink down in the space between his legs. He doesn’t look at me. I run my hands up Jack’s thighs. His muscles are rock-hard with tension beneath my touch. He doesn’t need this shit. Not before he has to perform. I debate with myself whether to make a joke, do something silly-seductive to get him back into bed, or to ask what’s wrong, and then decide I’ve got to ask. To ignore his distress would be insensitive.
“Is Walter still being a pain and is your daughter still having problems?” I asked tentatively.
Jack’s eyes flash. “Chrissie doesn’t have any problems. Walter just sees what he wants to see. But she’s exactly as she’s always been. She’s just different. She’s a genius. I mean literally. Tested off the charts. Hell, she can pick up any instrument or piece and just play it. A virtuoso. Serious and smart. It’s more difficult to be an intelligent child. Harder to fit in. Always watching. Always thinking. No one your own age to relate to. Makes her different. But it doesn’t mean there is something wrong with her. There is nothing wrong with Chrissie.”
My cheeks are burning by the time he finishes, though I fight to keep my expression from changing. Problems. Crud, Linda, you couldn’t have phrased that worse. Chrissie is sacred ground for Jack. Why did you have to say something so inflammatory?
“I wasn’t suggesting she had problems, Jack, merely asking if there were problems.”
His eyes soften into gentle blue pools. He sighs, a long shudder as if he’s willing the tension from his frame.
“I’m sorry I was harsh with you. I didn’t mean to be.” He looks down at me and smiles. He cups my chin. “I can’t wait for you to meet Chrissie. You’re so alike. You’ll get her, I think. It’s not easy being young and intelligent, is it? You see too clearly the world too soon. The two of you should relate beautifully. You have the same eyes. Sage eyes. I bet you were just like her. Always watching, thinking too much, understanding too much, and struggling to fit in as a little girl.”
My cheeks color more, but I force a laugh. “I’m hardly a genius. And I don’t understand anything most of the time. Boy when you read things wrong, Jack, you read them wrong.”
He gives me a pained expression. “Always a wisecrack. You know what I mean.”
I kiss him lightly on the thigh. I need to quickly change the direction we’re going. He’s serious and tense and I don’t want him to bring up the subject of me meeting Chrissie. When he does that it makes my emotional calm fly out the window and the delusional part of me foolishly hope that someday it will happen. I smile up at him. “Wait here.”
I spring to my feet, but he keeps hold of my hand. Jack smiles. “Why?”
My eyes round. “Just do it.”
He laughs and lets his fingers slowly slip loose from mine.
I rush into the bedroom and start rummaging through the bags I brought in with me.
“You’re not putting on something sexy are you?” he calls from the living room. “You don’t need to bother. You are sexy in everything.”
I ignore the bag with the cute little black nightie set. I go for the sandwich instead, grabbing with it some napkins and then a small bottle of chilled sparkling water from the fridge. I note the cut limes left inside by the hotel. And there’s ice. I fill a cocktail glass, fixing his non-alcoholic substitute cocktail the way he likes.
I feel a little silly about this as I walk back into the living room. I sink on my knees at the coffee table directly across from him.
I focus on laying out his lunch. “Not very fancy, but I guarantee it’s good. I bet you haven’t eaten today. Now eat.”
The pressure of his eyes on me makes me look up. Jack smiles. “You take such good care of me.”
I shake my head. “Nope, I take care of me. You’re not going to do me any good if you don’t eat.”
He laughs again and sinks onto the carpet in front of his dinner. “I love that you do this. Think of me when we’re not together.” He peeks inside the bread to see what I made him this time. “And you’re definitely a world class sandwich maker. Left over pot roast?”
I nod. “Mom and I had pot roast last night.”
He chews and swallows. “It’s good. So how is Doris?”
“Mom’s great, thanks to you. Really loving her job at your record label and her new place in Encino. I would say Mom is almost happy.”
Jack laughs, shaking his head and pauses just before taking another bit. “Doris is a kick. I like your mom. Does she know about us?”
He takes a bite and sits there chewing and staring at me. On the surface he looks oh-so casual about the question, but those eyes of his sharpen. He’s looking for something on my face, a reaction of some kind.
I lift my chin. “Nope. Doris likes to gossip. Wouldn’t be the best thing for her to know about us. And she definitely likes to lecture. I suspect she wouldn’t be pleased to learn we’re involved.”
Jack frowns and reaches for his water. “Why not? What’s not to love about me?”
I laugh and slap him on the knee under the table. “You know what I m
ean. It has nothing to do with you. She wouldn’t be happy about it because of me. She’d just think you’re another mistake I’m making. Just another part of all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“Then we should take her to dinner and set her straight on a few things.”
I shrug. “Maybe next time. I want to keep you to myself this trip, OK?” I say the last part of that in a purposely sexy, suggestive way, making a slight lift of my eyebrows.
I expect Jack to laugh, but he doesn’t. He sits back eating and watching me for a while.
“Have you talked to your dad?” he asks, after a long pause.
Crap, we’re hitting on all the highlights this trip. Why is he doing this?
“No. And I don’t plan to. He called a few days ago. Left a message. I didn’t call him back. He probably just wants money or something.”
His eyes are sharply probing my face. “You’re going to have to deal with him sometime. Don’t brush him off. He made an effort. It’s your turn now.”
I nod and say, “OK,” but I don’t let my thoughts rise to my expression.
I watch him eat, wondering how he can read so many situations wrong at times. He gets a lot of them wrong. Purposely, or is it something else I haven’t figured out yet?
Made an effort. My dad placed one call to me in twenty-two years and Jack calls that making an effort. Nope, Jack. You made the effort. You’re the only man in my life to ever make an effort for me.
You are the one who found my father, arranged for me to meet him, and held me emotionally together after I did. I fight not to forcibly shudder as I recall the day I first was face-to-face with Brian Cray, my dead-beat dad since birth.
I smile and nod toward the sandwich. “Good?”
