by T. Torrest
“How can you just ride around in silence?” I finally blurt out.
“I don’t know. Silence is underrated. I do most of my song-writing in the car or the shower. That’s easier to do without the distraction of someone else’s music, you know? Inspiration doesn’t come easily when it has to fight through noise.”
I sit in the quiet, waiting for inspiration to strike, but it’s hard to think about anything beyond the smoking hot rock star sitting next to me. I’m not used to this dating thing as it is, and am fighting the urge to slip into default-mode. I want to slide over to his side of the car and run a hand up his jean-clad legs. I want to tangle my fingers in the back of his hair and suck his face for the next couple of hours. I start to get all sweaty just thinking about it.
So instead, I ask, “You’re not writing anything right now, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Then do you care if I take a go at getting that cassette out of there so we can listen to some music?”
Jack shoots me a skeptical look. “There’s a screwdriver in the glove compartment. Knock yourself out.”
I rifle through the glove box and find it. Just as I jab it into the stereo, Jack says, “But I already tried to wedge that thing out a million times. It’s pretty point—”
“Got it! Ha ha, sucker. I freaking got you!” I pull the cassette out, trailing a long ribbon of tangled tape behind it, and hold it up to show my stunned chauffer.
“How the hell did you do that?” he asks, perfectly astounded.
I wiggle the stuck ribbon out from the player, and wedge the screwdriver into the cassette holes to wind up the excess tape. “This night will go easier for you the sooner you realize I’m awesome.”
I turn up the volume and start punching his presets, trying to find a decent station. When I come across Billy Joel’s “My Life,” I take a shot and leave it on. Sneaking a look over at Jack, I’m pleased to find him tapping a hand against the wheel, softly singing along, so I join him.
Maybe I got a little too into the duet, because I suddenly realize Jack is no longer singing. I have my head back against the seat and my eyes closed, but I snap them open to find him staring at me. “What?” I ask, completely self-conscious.
“You just sang ‘victim of Son of Sam.’”
“So?”
“So, the lyrics are ‘victim of circumstance.’ Please tell me you were only joking.”
I bite my lip and look at him sheepishly. “Umm, aside from being awesome, you should know that I’m also lyrically challenged.”
That has him cracking up.
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday, June 6, 1995
8:45 PM
The Westlake Pub
Norman
The place Jack takes me is The Westlake Pub. It’s the local bar in Norman, right on Lenape Lake. When I was in high school, I used to drive by it all the time. I always wondered what it was like inside.
I find out soon enough.
It’s kind of a dive, but it has this great, homey feel to it. Lots of dark wood and scrungy old sports banners plastered all over the walls.
Jack grabs us a couple beers and we head right for the pool room, chatting as we play a round of darts while waiting for our turn at the table.
“Thunderjug plays here sometimes,” Jack says, just missing the bullseye. “It was the first place that ever hired us for a gig, actually. We play the beach all summer, but The Westlake is our home base the rest of the year.”
“Just here?”
“Here first and foremost, but we play all the clubs in the area: Mother’s, Rock the House, Shannon Rose, The Junkyard… wherever there’s a stage, we go.”
It’s kind of weird that I’ve been to all those places that he just mentioned—numerous times—and never met him before now. I guess an argument for good timing could be made here.
Jack pulls his darts from the board, marks his points, and then hands them over. “How long have you been playing?” I ask.
He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks so hot that I get distracted and miss my 15. “With these guys? About four years now. But I taught myself how to play guitar when I was twelve.”
I take my third shot, then retrieve the darts for Jack. “I need to know: How did an unsigned band get a song on the radio?”
He takes the darts from me with a snicker and lands his final bullseye, ending the game. Dammit.
As he shakes my hand, he answers, “It just sort of happened. We recorded a few of our originals onto a CD a few months back—Booey thought it was a good idea to sell them at our shows along with the T-shirts—and one of the guys that bought one was a DJ at William Patterson’s radio station.” College radio. Yikes. It almost sucked me in a few years back, but there is really only so much Jimmy Buffet and Steve Miller a girl can take. I abandoned the WPU station almost as quickly as I had found it. “Anyway, I guess someone from the New York stations heard it and added ‘Backyard’ into the rotation. It kind of took off from there.”
“Can they do that? Isn’t that like stealing from you?”
“Are you kidding? Most bands flood radio stations with their CDs, just hoping that they’ll get the chance to be heard. Before the bloodsucking business side took over, that’s how it was done. It’s just that nowadays, most bands don’t get to break through without a little back-scratching from someone on the inside which is why anyone who’s serious about their career will try to land an agent as early as possible.”
“But not Thunderjug?”
“We just want to play music. Whether that’s on a stage in a bar or arena makes no difference to us.” The pool table has been vacated, so Jack throws his dollar in the box and racks up the balls before adding, “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t cool as hell to hear my song on the frigging radio, though.”
While I’m laughing about that, Jack hands me a cue. “Ladies first.”
I take a weak opening shot, then let Jack take his turn. “It’s kind of crazy that you’re planning to throw all this good fortune away.”
He lines up his cue and asks, “Why’s that?”
“Well, it would seem that music’s been a whole lot nicer to you than construction ever has.”
He almost chokes as he flubs his shot, then stands up to face me with a raised brow. “Looks like someone’s been doing her homework.”
Oops! I didn’t mean to let on that I knew all about the drama with his ex. It takes quite a bit to get me to blush, but I know my face is probably flaming red right now.
“Construction wasn’t the problem,” he explains. “My girlfriend was. But I’m guessing you already know that.”
I bite my lip and admit, “Monty may have mentioned something along those lines.”
“Things weren’t always awful between us, but I suppose we were doomed from the start. I mean, I only met her because her father was my boss. He liked me. Had some big connections in Contractor World. I guess I ended up sticking around way too long for all the wrong reasons.” When I don’t say anything, Jack asks, “Do you really want to hear this? Am I that guy who’s going to spend the first date talking about his ex?”
“No, I want to know. Really. What went wrong?”
He gives a shrug and answers, “Lots of things. She hated my music, hated whenever I had to work late. She kept pressuring me to get married, and we were so not there yet. I kept trying to make it work, but she had really changed over the years, and I just couldn’t stay in it anymore. Once I bailed, her daddy cut me off. My contracting career was dead.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve been eavesdropping. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Trust me. I’m just glad the music thing took off when it did.”
“There’s just one thing I need to know about all this,” I say, fighting to keep a straight face. Jack stills, readying himself for the Spanish Inquisition. “What the hell is a thunderjug?”
He laughs as he tosses his cue onto the table, temporarily abandon
ing our game. “You sure you want to know?”
I eye him skeptically. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“Well, the short answer is that it’s a container to store liquid.”
“Liquid,” I repeat.
“Uh huh.”
“Okay…”
The smile is still playing at his lips as he elaborates clinically, “Well, there’s a time in every man’s life when he finds himself on a boat or stuck in traffic, basically in the middle of nowhere.” When I show no sign of understanding, he goes on, “In such circumstances, sometimes it becomes necessary to ah, shall we say, relieve oneself, if you will.”
“Isn’t the whole world a man’s toilet?” I ask, which makes him laugh.
“Yes, but not when you’re in a car in the middle of a highway.”
“Yeah, and?”
Jack raises an eyebrow to continue. “Empty milk containers, you know, the plastic, gallon-size? They’re very useful in such a situation.”
A dawning of clarity comes over me as I understand where he is leading. “Ewww! But why do you call it—”
“Because when you piss in them, it sounds like thunder! Hence…”
“The thunderjug,” I finish for him, completely grossed out and cracking the hell up. “Why did you name your band after that?”
“Because it’s funny.”
I give an exaggerated shiver just as one of the bartenders comes into the room, wiping down the hightops.
Jack winks at me and nods in the direction of the man. “Hey, Liv. Rack ‘em up. Care to make it interesting this time?”
The bartender turns toward us with a huge grin. He’s an older guy; salt-and-pepper hair, really handsome, great smile. “Not a chance, Tanner. See the box?”
He points to the wooden box mounted on the wall. There’s a sign over it that says: NO GAMBLING. $1 donation required to play.
I’d already watched Jack stuff some money into it prior to our game, but he plays dumb to bust the guy’s chops. “Donation to what?”
“I haven’t decided yet. OJ’s defense fund?”
That has Jack sputtering out a cackle as he makes the introductions. “Livia, I’d like you to meet the owner of this shithole, Rudy McAllister. Rudy, Livia Chadwick.”
“New girlfriend?” Rudy asks as he shakes my hand.
Jack snickers, “First date, Rudy.”
Rudy gives a huff before admonishing, “First date and you bring her here? What’s the matter with you, Tanner?”
I laugh at the way one carefully aimed jab is able to turn a successful, twenty-eight-year-old musician/contractor into a chastened, prepubescent boy.
“Hey Rudy,” I say. “I actually think this place is awesome.”
“Well, in that case, you’ll have to let me buy you a drink.”
“Sold!”
As Rudy leaves the room, Jack yells at his back, “Tell those good-for-nothing sons of yours I said hello!”
He waves without ever turning around. “You got it.”
We finish our game and then finagle a couple of stools at the long bar, looking out the windows to the lake. The place may be a true dive, but it has a spectacular view and a great energy. People of all ages are crammed along the bar, and the jukebox has been playing such a mishmash of songs because of it—everything from Etta James to Soul Asylum.
As soon as we’re settled with our drinks—compliments of Rudy McAllister himself—XTC’s “Senses Working Overtime” comes on, and I am more than excited to hear it. “This is like the coolest place ever!”
Jack smiles. “I’m glad you like it. I guess you pass.”
“Wait. Was this a test? I don’t appreciate being tested unknowingly.”
“Calm down. It wasn’t really a test. I just always get a good idea of what I’m getting into whenever I bring a girl here.”
“Whenever you bring a girl here? How many have there been?”
Jack meets my eyes guiltily, realizing what a tacky conversation we’re having. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, it’s been a long time since I brought anyone here. Like I already told you, I’m not that guy anymore.”
As if on cue, a pretty young girl comes up behind him and mimes a silent shush at me before wrapping her hands over his eyes. “Guess who?”
She’s beautiful, but I’m assuming she’s just a friend by the way she’s trying to share the sneaky giggle with me.
Jack’s white grin is the only part of his face that’s visible as he laughs out, “Suzi Quattro.”
That makes her laugh and remove her hands.
When she does, Jack turns his head and she leans in to kiss him hello. He gives a rub up her arm and says, “Hey, baby. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the city?”
The girl nods her head, and I register that she looks vaguely familiar. “Yes, but sometimes I like to visit my father, you dork. But yikes. If I don’t get a job soon, I may not be living the city life much longer. God, can you imagine if I have to move back in with him?” She turns toward me and gives a wave. “Since my rude cousin doesn’t look like he’s going to get around to an introduction, hi. I’m Layla.”
“I was working up to it, you brat!” Jack protests.
“Livia,” I answer back, suddenly recognizing her name. “We went to school together, right? St. Nicetius?”
“Oh yeah! You were a year ahead of me. Class of ninety, yes?”
“Yep.”
“Twin sister, Victoria? Hung out with Tess Valletti?”
“Still do.”
“No way! Small world. How’d you end up here with this ugly loser?” At that, she punches Jack in the arm, so he maneuvers her into a headlock. I laugh while watching her try to break free.
Once she finally does, she gives Jack—and me—a kiss on the cheek, explaining that she’s on her way out.
“Nice to see you again,” I offer.
“You too. Tell the girls I said hello.”
After she splits, Jack explains, “Rudy is Layla’s next door neighbor; that’s how I know him. I kind of grew up with his sons. He’s got four—just like us—and we’re all around the same age.”
“No wonder this was the first place to be the guinea pig for Thunderjug. Nepotism has its priveleges, huh?” I ask.
“It’s all in who you know, baby.”
* * *
It’s late by the time Jack pulls the van in front of my house and cuts the engine. The air is damp outside my window, seeping into the now-stilled car. I take a deep inhale; a mixture of early dew and humidity.
And maybe a little sweat.
Why am I so nervous?
Jack turns sideways in his seat. “This was fun. Are you glad you came?”
A million pithy rejoinders spring into my brain as I consider his question. Too easy. “I did. Thank you.”
It’s crazy, trying to reconcile my mind into this new way of thinking. Rock stars always equaled sex. Normal guys always equaled “boyfriend.” But Jack is a rock star I’m dating, not screwing. And he’s a talented rock star at that. I don’t know how to thank him for his music, for this evening, without using my body.
Jack makes the decision for us as his mouth meets mine in a soft kiss. It’s much less urgent than the first couple times we had locked lips, and I’m surprised that such a sweet kiss can be so… nice. I find myself sighing at the gentle pressure of his mouth, the feather-soft caress of his fingers against my jaw. It’s turning me on almost as much as our hungry stolen kisses from the first weekend we’d met.
I kiss him back, only pushing it a little bit.
And then I let him drive away.
CHAPTER 16
Date #2: Friday, June 9, 1995
After 7:00 PM
My Apartment
Clifton
Jack is late. Again.
I’m waiting alone at the living room window, ducking out of sight whenever I spot a car’s headlights coming up the street.
Vix and I share the rent on the bottom half of a two-family
house in Clifton which is ten minutes from my parents, fifteen minutes from my work, and a one-block walk to the NJ transit so Vix can get to her job in the city.
Our “apartment” is nothing to write home about, but we each have our own bedroom, access to half of the large basement, and a kickass view of the New York City skyline out the picture window in our kitchen.
My roomie has already headed down to the Manasquan house for the weekend, offering a big hug and good luck for a fun time at the party. I am definitely going to need it. The party is happening at Jack’s parents’ house, which is freaking me out just the slightest bit on a lot of different levels. His reasoning is that since he’s already met my parents, it’s only fair that I meet his—despite the fact that he’s the one who arranged that meeting, too.
I wished Vix was around a couple hours ago when I was debating what to wear. I decided on my knee-length, blue-on-white floral sundress, figuring that it could look either casual or dressy. Normally, I’d throw on my biker jacket and a pair of Docs, but tonight, I’m trying to class it up a bit. I skipped the leather on my back and opted for a pair of sandals at my feet. Why didn’t Jack tell me what kind of party this was?
At least my hair is cooperating with me tonight. I’m glad I spent the extra time on it.
Where is he?
He’d called just once all week, and then only to confirm that we were still on for tonight, seven o’clock. I check the VCR for what seems the tenth time in the past half-hour. It’s 7:24.
Finally, the doorbell rings and I open it to find Jack, breathless and apologizing for his late arrival. “I’m sorry, Liv. I got tied up with Booey trying to work out our damn schedule, and by the time I—” He stops mid-sentence and lets out a huge breath. “Jesus, you look good.”
He’s standing there looking at me like he’s a shipwrecked cartoon character and I’m the hapless fellow castaway, transforming into a drool-worthy meal before his very eyes.
Trying to hide my unease at feeling like a hallucinated steak, I respond, “Thank you.”
