by T. Torrest
Traitors.
I think they’re acting ridiculously, since I had, not one hour ago, confided in them about my victorious inner battle of Common Sense Vs. The Rock Star. I also think that I could simply make the decision to go with them and leave Jack in the dust. But the truth is, I’m curious to hear what he has to say.
I don’t let their little coup affect me as Jack settles down at my side and drops his feet into the water before turning to me and smiling.
Yep. Still got a Colgate commercial going on in there.
While I’m still reeling from that, he launches into a lengthy diatribe. “I really do want to apologize, Liv. I’m sorry for running hot and cold with you, I really am. I want you to know that that’s all on me. I’m the one who’s going through some changes right now, and I just need you to know that my actions have nothing to do with you. You’re great. And you’re incredibly sexy and fun, and that’s why I can’t keep my hands off you. But you deserve better than some asshole pawing at you every chance he gets. And I’m going to do a better job from now on to treat you with the respect you’re worthy of. Okay?”
My mouth gapes open at his words. No one has ever said anything like that to me in my entire life. My head moves on its own as I give him a dazed nod in answer, unable to speak a single syllable.
Without another word, he puts his hands on the concrete, closes his eyes, and tips his face toward the sky. We sit in a quiet, comfortable silence as I try to sort out all the internal musings pinging around my brain. I suppose the guy didn’t have to apologize. I mean, it’s not like he’s trying to work his way into my bikini bottoms or anything, so his ulterior motive was only to… what? Make me feel better?
I guess he at least deserves respect for that.
Squinting an eye in his direction, I can see that he hasn’t yet broken his pose, and I take the opportunity to steal a glance at his torso, partially exposed through his unbuttoned shirt.
Bad idea.
Trying to cover for sneaking a peek at his incredible abs, I senselessly blurt out, “I’m the asshole.”
He cracks one eye open as he asks, “What?”
I take a deep breath and offer through my exhale, “I’m sorry, too.”
He doesn’t ask why I’m apologizing, but I figure I’d better cough up the explanation anyway. “The truth is that you kind of called me out for something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. But you’re right. Sometimes, I get tired of all the...”
“Emptiness?” Jack finishes for me.
I haven’t ever viewed my life as empty, but crap. He’s right. “Yeah.”
I’m pretty impressed that he doesn’t twist the knife, and simply nods his head in acceptance. I’m grateful for that. It was hard enough admitting that I’d been exposed—which, come on, I happen to think deserves at least a little credit—I don’t need him to be smug about it on top of it.
Truce attained. Change of subject needed.
“So... Monty tells me that your real job is in construction.”
Jack looks taken aback. “Uh, yeah. Sort of. Well, not so much anymore...”
“Because you’re a musician now?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” His surprised look hasn’t abated, and I’m sure it’s because he expected me to have said ‘rock star’ instead. I’m glad I didn’t. “The music’s really going well right now. We’re making money; we’re having fun. But I haven’t swung my last hammer yet, if you know what I mean.”
“You want to get back to building.”
“God yeah. Once all this dies down.” He swoops his hand in a wide arc as he modestly refers to his overnight stardom simply as “all this.” I think it’s ironic. Some people would kill for the kind of celebrity Jack was achieving. And yet, he seems almost annoyed by it. There’s something sort of cool about that, though. “Once I’ve sucked enough cash out of the music thing, I’m going back to building houses. But on my terms this time. Entire neighborhoods with signs out front saying, Jackson Tanner Contracting.”
“Wow. That would be something. But you need to work on the name. How about I Built This City on Rock and Roll, inspired by and named for what has to be the greatest song of all time.”
“Ouch. Yet strangely appropriate.” The lame joke earns me a fabulous grin before he comes back with, “Maybe I could go international: El Projecto de Juan.”
“Sí. How about Yet another Home by Jackson Tanner? It conveys a sense that you’re already everywhere.”
“Or—Hey, wait. I like that.”
I give myself a pat on the back and then ask, “Did you ever consider a government contract? Big money there.”
“What do you mean, like a professional assassin or something?”
“Yes, like a professional assassin.” He starts laughing as I roll my eyes. “No, Stupid. I mean doing construction for a city project.”
Jack absorbs the information. “Yeah, maybe something to think about. It’s worth a shot, right?” A smile is playing at his lips as he asks, “You think they’d still give me a gun?”
The adorable boyishness with which he delivers that line has me smiling in spite of myself. The guy really is insanely gorgeous, but even more than that, he’s… genuinely nice. I’ve never been attracted to a genuinely nice guy before, and now I’m wondering why that is.
Fear of commitment? Flat-out rebelliousness? Masochism?
Who the hell knows.
He’s looking directly at me, and in this bright light, and maybe because we’re sitting near a pool, his eyes are more blue than gray. I’ve never met anyone whose eyes could change color like that. I mean, mine are green. A little brownish, but you’d never mistake them for anything other than green. Jacks’ were kind of greenish, mostly gray, and now they’re straight-up blue.
The dude is a chameleon in every sense, apparently.
“Would you really just throw a music career down the tubes?”
He shrugs. “I don’t look at it as throwing it away. It’s just another Thing. You know... do something, explore it, find something new, and move on. Right now, I’m exploring this. But when my run is up, I’ll go back to doing what I do best.”
“Your construction skills are better than your music? I find that hard to believe.”
He shrugs again. “I like to build things.”
The words themselves are fairly innocent. But the vulnerability with which he says them takes over a small piece of real estate in my cold, dead heart.
He seems almost embarrassed by his statement, and tries to cover with a change of subject. “Quick. Name the first band that comes to your mind.”
I’m not prepared for the question, and for whatever reason, the only thing to pop into my head is, “Bon Jovi!”
Jack’s face takes on a scowl. “Bon Jovi? Seriously?”
“What? I liked them!”
He shakes his head in disbelief as he shoots back, “You liked my band, too! What does that say for Thunderjug? Jesus.”
“Dude. I was a teenage girl in the eighties. Liking them was kinda the law. Are you actually gonna sit here and tell me you don’t dig the pure awesomeness that is Bon Effing Jovi?”
“I’m a guy. Of course I don’t like them.” He gives a scratch to his chin as he adds, “I’ll give them ‘Wanted Dead or Alive,’ though. And only because Richie strums a pretty kickass riff during it. But that’s it.”
Blasphemy. How can he not dig one of our state’s most beloved native sons? Surely, he’s full of it. “What about ‘Living on a Prayer’?”
“Nope.”
“Bed of Roses.”
“Hell no.”
“Runaway.”
“No. Well, wait. Okay… maybe that one doesn’t suck.”
“Good. See? Now we don’t have to kick you out of Jersey.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Collective ‘we.’ As in, everyone who lives here.”
He swirls his hand through the surface of the water, flicking his wet fingers in my direction. “Lips, I’d hardl
y put some band at the top of my list because of two redeeming songs. And I can’t be kicked out due to brand disloyalty. I grew up listening to Sinatra. And Frankie Valli. And I just happen to be a huge Springsteen fan. We’ve got a show lined up at The Stone Pony in a few weeks, and I can’t fucking wait.” He hesitates for a pause before adding, “I saw him there once, you know. Not on stage. Just hanging out at the bar.”
“Springsteen? Oh my God!” Springsteen is practically royalty, local or not. And if he’s the king of our garden state, then The Stone Pony is his castle. “How did you deal with that? I’d probably pass out if I ever found myself face-to-face with him.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Last year, my guitarist Freddie and I stopped in for a few beers and he just shows up. Freddie elbows me in the side and when I look up, there he is, standing right there at the bar next to me. The Boss himself. I totally lost my cool.”
“Lost it how?”
His lips are trying to contain a smile as he answers, “No. I haven’t known you long enough to tell you that story. You’ll lose all respect for me.”
“I never had any to begin with. Come on. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Pleeease?”
That makes him chuckle. “Well, let me ask you… If you ran into Springsteen, what would you have said to him?”
“Hmmm,” I offer, giving myself a moment to think. “I guess I’d probably tell him how much I love ‘Born in the USA.’”
Our friendly banter is halted as Jack pauses in a dead stare. “Livia. It’s widely accepted that ‘Born in the USA’ is not Bruce’s best album. By far. Overproduced, synthesized…”
I give a dismissive wave of my hand. “I don’t care about any of that technical, behind-the-scenes stuff. All I care about is that flippy feeling I get in my stomach whenever I hear ‘Dancing in the Dark’.”
Jack looks like he’s ready to pass out. “Yeah. That might be the worst song on there.”
“Monica Geller and I would heartily disagree.”
“It’s pop!”
“I don’t care. It’s awesome,” I defend.
“Casey Kasem can take his Top Forty countdown and shove it right up his poo-hole.”
I snicker, “You know, you should really express yourself more. It’s not good to keep your opinions and emotions all bottled up like that.”
“Yeah? Well you need to get some better taste in music!”
“Well, I thought your band was great. Obviously, I don’t know shit!”
We stop arguing and just look at each other for a long, heated pause… and then we both lose it.
We’re still laughing as Jack hauls himself to his feet and strips off his shirt.
I stop laughing.
I only get a brief glance at his naked torso before he dives into the water, and it’s just as beautiful as I remember from upstairs in the hallway. When his head and shoulders break the surface, I’m able to take a better look at him, now that I’m not either stunned by the sight of him in a towel, or brain dead from making out with him.
But even still, I feel like I’m the one treading water right now.
“So, what’s that?” I ask, pointing to the tat on his left shoulder blade. He twists it toward me and looks over his shoulder, as if he needs to view it in order to remember. I can finally make out that it’s a cratered full moon with a gnarly tree growing out the top. And when I look really close, I can see what looks like a small fox curled up underneath it. There are words ribboned around the entire design, but I can’t get a read on them.
When Jack sees my squinted eyes, he takes mercy on me. “Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé.”
I think I just felt my ovaries explode. Holy crap did he sound hot speaking French. It’s a physical feat to avoid leaping into the pool and licking every inch of him, and instead I ask as casually as possible, “Nice. But what does it mean?”
He gives a shrug and explains, “It’s a quote from ‘The Little Prince.’ I’m French on my father’s side… the youngest kid in the family…”
“Yeah, so?” I ask, having no idea what I’m supposed to glean from his “explanation.” When I can tell he’s not going to elaborate, I move onto the scrutiny of his right arm. “Fine. Okay. So, what’s that one?”
Jack twists his shoulder and looks down his arm. “A rose.”
“I see that, wiseass. What’s the significance?”
“It’s a replica of Paul Stanley’s. He’s got the same one in the same spot.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Paul Stanley? From KISS? They’re horrible!”
“That’s rich coming from a girl who just referenced “Bed of Roses” and “Dancing in the Dark” as being great songs. KISS is awesome,” he fires back, shoving some water in my direction.
Snickering from his assault, I swipe the droplets off my legs. “Hey, my taste is eclectic, I’ll grant you that. But I didn’t go running out to get a Superman tattoo to be just like Jon Bon Jovi.”
“I was eighteen.”
As seriously as I can muster, I ask, “Oh, so you like to rock and roll all night and party every day?”
“EV-er-y day.”
Oh holy crap that breaks me. I can’t contain my giggles. “You. The biggest music snob in the universe and you’re sporting a KISS tattoo? In other words, fifty percent of your ink has been devoted to a cheesy band!”
“Thirty-three percent.”
I’m holding my sides and cackling, so his words don’t register right away. “What?”
He gives a quick clench to his teeth before explaining, “I have three tattoos. But I don’t know you well enough yet to show you that last one.”
The smirk he shoots me stops my laughter and starts my mind racing: What is it? Where is it? I’ve already been thrown off my game by his comment… but now here he is hauling himself out of the water.
Christ.
I watch the muscles in his arms strain against his glistening skin as he pulls himself up and sits down on the edge of the pool with me again. He shakes out his hair and the water flicks onto my skin, breaking me out of my trance.
“Hey,” I say, checking my vintage Swatch and finally taking note of the time. “It’s Memorial Day Weekend for godsakes. Don’t you have a gig tonight?”
Jack grabs my wrist and turns it to check for himself, the small touch shooting an electric current along my skin. “I do, actually. And it looks like I’ll have to get out of here soon if I’m going to make it down to Used To Be’s in time.”
“Mantoloking?”
“Yep.”
“Careful. That’s a pretty rough neighborhood.”
The comment catches him off guard and he sputters out a laugh. Mantoloking is hardly a “rough neighborhood.” Spring Lake may be old money, but Mantoloking is most certainly new money. But who the hell cares? Money is money. You either have it or you don’t… and Mantoloking has it. The town is populated by Wall Street CEOs, entertainment moguls, and plastic surgeons, amongst others. Driving by the ostentatious beachfront properties along Route 35 is pretty goddamn sickening. So much wealth on one stretch of road. Crazy.
“Keep your eye out for a smallish pink Victorian with a white porch on your way down,” I suggest.
“Why’s that?”
I shrug and answer, “I drew up some floor plans based on that house once. It’s my favorite one.” Jack is looking at me, clearly impressed. “It’s no big deal. Just a hobby of my mother’s and mine.”
My mother and I have this little game where I’ll sketch up a bunch of rooms and then she’ll draw the exterior based on my designs. We’ve come up with some pretty wacky concepts over the years, but a few of the houses we’ve collaborated on are absolutely gorgeous. Not your average mother/daughter activity, but it’s always been one of our favorite things to do, and a good way to play pen-pal over the weeks she’s away with Dad for his gigs.
Artsy family, remember?
I don’t add that the genesis of our li
ttle hobby is due to the fact that we used to be poor as dirt. I grew up knowing that those drawings would be the only mansions I’d ever own.
Just FYI- I really don’t want you to get the impression that I’m bitter about that. Growing up poor builds character, and it sure as hell is the reason why I’ve always been such a dreamer. And truly, I really like that part about myself. But if I’m going to be honest, I’ll admit that life was never easy when you didn’t have two nickels to rub together.
We both sit quietly pondering the water at our feet when out of nowhere, Jack says, “So let me take you out sometime.”
That jogs me out of my daze. “What?”
“We’re having a good time. Let’s not wait until we bump into each other to do it again.”
“Like… a date?” I can’t believe I’m actually listening to this, much less considering it.
“Yes.”
I don’t say anything.
“C’mon. You know you want to say yes. Let me show you what dating a man like me feels like.”
“I’ve already felt your ‘manliness,’ thanks. Too bad you won’t let me show you what dating me is really like. If you only knew what you were missing out on…”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he laughs out. “Fact is, I’m already dying to sleep with you. But I told you already, I’m trying something new, here.” He shoots me a grin before adding, “The thing is, when I finally take you to bed, I want it to be for more than just kicks.”
I stare him down, trying to read his words. I mean, what’s the point of getting it on if you went into it expecting to be bored? My head tips to the side skeptically as I ask through a snicker, “What do you want it to be, then?”
He crooks a finger under my chin, aiming those mysterious slate-blue eyes into mine. “Unforgettable.”
Cue melty kneecaps.
I try to keep my cool so he won’t see just exactly how much that one little word has affected me. “Hey, it’s no skin off my back. I was just looking for a little fun.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun, Lips. You can count on it.”
His mouth quirks into a mischievous grin, daring me to doubt him.
