by T. Torrest
His arms slip around my middle, pulling me in as he brushes a sweet, soft kiss against my temple. His words are a seductive whisper against my skin. “It almost makes me want to blow off this party and stay home with you instead.”
His touch is sending shockwaves through me as I feel the length of his body pressing against my own. His lips at my hairline are giving me chills, and I slide my hands up his back to pull him closer. “That can be arranged. Just say the word, Jack.”
Before he can respond, his pager goes off. He gives out a sigh as he steps out of my grasp, brushes a hand through his hair, and asks to borrow my phone. About thirty seconds into the call, I hear him say, “Oh, shit.”
“Is everything all right?” I ask, our almost-encounter now dutifully abandoned.
He escorts me out the door, saying, “Yes. But I’ve got to apologize again, Liv. Seems I forgot something. We’ll have to swing by my place on the way.”
“That’s okay. As long as your parents don’t get mad.”
I take a look at the Mustang parked at the curb and my jaw drops. After he’d picked me up in that molester van for our first date, I wasn’t expecting his car to be any nicer. But now this is more like it. The vintage sportscar is shiny and red and practically begging Tawny Kitaen to writhe all over the hood. The thing is sexy, and suits Jack’s personality to perfection.
He ushers me into the passenger seat before sliding into the driver’s side. I’m not much into cars, but one look at Jack behind the wheel of this thing suddenly makes me realize I could become a Mustang enthusiast.
The rumble of the engine reverberates through my entire body as he starts the car, executes a K-turn, and pulls out of my street. Ten minutes later, Jack swerves into his townhome complex, bringing the Ford to a jarring stop in his driveway. I stay in the car while he leaps out the door and runs inside. I give the outside of his home a quick once-over and attempt a glimpse of his living room through the bay window. There’s not much to see. Not a single picture on the wall, and no hint of furniture.
The townhomes are in their own small corner of Shermer Heights and are fairly new. I’d passed by curiously many times as they were being built, and wish we had more time to check out the inside tonight. But Jack is already bounding out the door holding a very poorly-wrapped present. He tosses it in the backseat, offering, “My brother’s birthday,” before pulling out of the driveway. “It’s not for another week, but far be it for Sean to pass up the opportunity to be the center of attention at a party.”
I giggle at the exaggerated grin on his face.
“Did you just move in?” I ask.
Jack scratches the back of his head, answering, “No. Well, yeah. A few months ago. Why?”
“Well, I couldn’t really tell from the car, but the place looks pretty empty.”
Jack shrugs and says, “I’ve got a TV, a fridge, and a bed. I don’t need much more than that right now.”
He shoots me a wink and I let the subject drop. So transient, this man. His career, his home… Do something, explore it, find something new, and move on. Is that why he set up this stupid bet? To keep himself focused on me?
We reach the gatehouse at the entrance to Norman Hills, a small community within the larger town of Norman. It’s fairly exclusive, known for its elegant homes and wooded privacy. I went to high school in this town, and I had friends who lived here, Tess among them. But even familiarity with the neighborhood doesn’t begin to prepare me for what I see.
Jack pulls past the numerous cars parked along the winding drive which leads to the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen up close. The federal-styled saltbox home is two stories of period-authentic, olive green wooden clapboard with a deeply pitched roof sporting a large, arched dormer. The main house is flanked by a long wing on each side, each with three dormered windows of their own. For such a monstrous home, it is very tastefully done.
I ask, amazed, “You grew up here?”
Jack puts the car in park before admitting, “Yeah, that was my room, upstairs on the right.” He points to the dormers almost directly in front of us. “It’s a little much, wouldn’t you say?”
I suddenly feel very underdressed.
“Just a little,” I answer.
Jack takes the present from the backseat with his one hand and jots around to my side of the car to open my door with the other. He escorts me through the breezeway that separates the enormous house from the angled, four-car garage on the right and into the backyard. I notice how handsome he looks in his tan slacks and ivory, button-down shirt—a complete turnaround from the jean-clad rock star I’d initially met. Better, I think.
I tear my gaze from him in order to survey the yard, and actually gasp at the sight before me. The lush, green lawn rolls artfully downhill to a large plateau perched gracefully at the edge of a cliff and is surrounded by towering pines. Beyond the edge of the property, I can make out the scattered lights of houses far below and the shimmering stars making their first appearance in the sky above.
There are tents set up, their string lights illuminating the fifty-odd occupants who are already milling about with their cocktails and canapés.
We make our way down the torchlit path, past the stone-ensconced, in-ground pool on our left, past the guest house on our right, and lastly, between a pair of humorously carved topiaries in the shapes of an elephant and a giraffe, en route to the bar situated under one of the large tents.
“Drinks first,” Jack says as he leads me to a long bar set with every possible liquor known to man. He puts his brother’s present on an empty chair and fixes me a vodka cranberry before digging around in a metal, ice-filled tub, coming up with a Budweiser.
“I thought I left a few of these lying around here,” he says triumphantly, as he twists off the cap and takes a swig.
Just then, I hear a deep voice yell, “Hey, Dickhead!” as a piece of shrimp goes flying past Jack’s head, which would have hit him had he not bent quickly to the side.
The next thing I know, there’s some huge, dark-haired guy maneuvering him into a headlock.
Jack squirms to break the hold and comes up with a fist aimed at the giant’s stomach.
I take a step back to avoid the melee and bump into another huge form. When I turn around, I find myself looking up at yet another dark-haired monster, only this one has Jack’s smile. He’s beaming down at me in a way that lets me understand there’s no immediate threat posed by the assumed attacker.
Jack laughs and runs a hand through his mussed hair. He points first to Gigantor Number Two, “Liv, the guy behind you, no doubt trying to hit on you, is Sean. And this little girl,” he shoves a forearm into Gigantor Number One’s chest, “is Stephen. They’re my brothers.”
I start to snicker as Stephen reaches out to shake my hand. “Funny thing, Pew, she’s not even close to the mutant I was expecting.”
Umm… thank you?
I raise my eyebrows at Jack. “Pew?”
“P-E-U means ‘little’ in French. It got kind of warped over the years to ‘Pew’.”
Our conversation at Monty’s pool takes shape in my brain, and I realize he’d been trying to tell me his family nickname was Little Prince. Cute. Also interesting, because from the first second I laid eyes on him, I’d been thinking of him as my dark prince.
“Sorry about the shrimp. Did I get you?” Stephen asks.
I laugh and assure him that he did not.
Sean nudges his brother out of the way to take my hand, and—so help me God—the guy actually brings my fingers to his face to kiss the skin between my knuckles. The move would have been totally douchey if he wasn’t so hot. Dude has some serious game.
Sean hasn’t yet let go of my hand as he adds, “Please explain to me what a beautiful young girl like you is doing with an ugly bastard like Pew.”
I chuckle as I suddenly notice an uncanny resemblance between Jack and his brothers. I answer, “Hey, I just met him. I’m only here for the free booze.”
T
hat makes Sean snicker as Jack responds, “Oh, really? That’s it. You’re cut off.”
While we’re laughing at that, a woman comes over with a tray of food. I know it has to be Mrs. Tanner; she looks just like her sons. She has black, shoulder-length hair cut in a stylish bob. She’s very tall, but next to her enormous children, she seems miniscule.
Before she can even finish saying hello, Stephen and Sean mug some hors d’oeuvres before taking off into the crowd.
She shakes her head at their retreating forms and turns her attention toward me. “And who might this be?” she asks.
“This might be Livia Chadwick, Mom,” Jack offers as he grabs a puffed whatever off her nearly-empty tray and pops it into his mouth, adding through his chewing, “And real smooth trying to pretend you didn’t already know that.”
She rolls her eyes and chastises him, “I was only trying to make your guest feel comfortable. Seriously, Jack. Who brings a girl home to meet the parents on a second date?”
I almost choke on my drink, and hold my hand over my mouth to try and stifle my laughter. The fact is, I’ve been wondering the same thing.
“No offense, Livia,” she says to me. “It’s actually very nice to meet you.”
I decide this woman is my new favorite person on Earth. “Thank you. You, too.”
“Jack tells me you’re a photographer.”
“Yes, I love it,” I answer back. That’s not a lie. I love taking pictures; I just hate my job.
Mrs. Tanner smiles. “Maybe you can take our family portrait this summer. It’s been years since we’ve arranged to have one done.”
I smile back. “I’d like that, thank you.”
Mrs. Tanner excuses herself back to the party as Jack and I decide to load up on some food. We run into his Uncle Kenny on the buffet line, who joins us as we hunt for Jack’s father. We find him standing near the bar with Jack’s brother, Harrison.
It’s a bit overwhelming trying to keep track of all the people in Jack’s family.
“Ah. The infamous Miss Chadwick. Nice to meet you,” Mr. Tanner says.
It’s kind of cute that Jack has already told his family about me. I hope he spun the story of how we first met, though. I can’t imagine his parents would be thrilled with the idea of their son dating someone like me.
The Tanner family is the freaking Cosby Show.
The Chadwicks are Roseanne.
Then again, everyone I’ve met tonight actually seems very, very cool. I shake off the chip on my shoulder and start acting like myself.
Harris offers a smile at our introduction, asking Jack, “Were you able to stop off for Sean’s present?”
“Yes, and thank you for calling to remind me.”
Harrison chuckles. “I knew you were going to forget.” He directs his next comment to me. “I’m surprised he didn’t forget to pick you up tonight. This guy would forget his head if it weren’t attached to his neck.”
I chuckle back. “Well... he was pretty late. Maybe he did forget to pick me up!”
Uncle Kenny almost doubles over laughing at his nephew. “Oh, this one knows how to dish it. Good for you, sweetheart. Don’t take any of his garbage.”
When I see the raised-brow look Jack is aiming at me, I add, “There’s sure enough of it in that van of his.”
Jack shakes his head. “Watch it, wiseass.”
He’s trying to look threatening, but his lip is twitching on a repressed smile.
“Actually,” I offer, addressing our laughing group, “he may be a slob, and yeah, he’s perpetually late… but it’s kind of hard not to like him anyway.”
Jack’s face breaks into a genuine grin at that.
CHAPTER 17
Friday, June 9, 1995
10:17 PM
Jack’s Parents’ House
Norman Hills
We decide to take a breather, and Jack escorts me over to a more private corner of the estate, a small patio surrounded by hedges and lit with a dimmed lamppost. As he lights a cigarette, I take a seat on the concrete bench. We’re separated from any party guests by a row of shrubs, but still in full view of anyone who chooses to peek in our direction.
Guess I won’t be getting my hands on him just yet.
He props a foot next to me on the bench and crosses his arms over his knee before asking, “Are you having a good time?”
“I am,” I answer, smoothing my dress over my legs. “Your family is a bunch of ball-busters, huh?”
“Yeah, but Stephen’s the worst of them.”
“I could tell. And wow. Your parents seem really… grounded.” Coming from me, that’s a compliment of the highest order. Jack chuckles, and I’m grateful that he understands where I’m coming from. He has, after all, already met my parents. “And Harris is pretty smart, huh?” I didn’t get much chance to talk to him, but he reeked of ‘intellectual.’
“First in his class at Syracuse.”
“Wow!”
“Yep.”
I’m still reeling from that bit of news as I add, “And Sean... Sean is so incredibly charming—”
Jack gives me a look of warning and cuts me off with, “You felt obligated to flirt with him?”
“No,” I correct him, laughing at his jealousy. “I felt like it was my only duty to stand there trying to look pretty. It’s like he actually expects to be surrounded by gorgeous women twenty-four hours a day or something.”
Jack bites his lip. “He does... and is.”
“Oh.”
I entertain a brief idea about setting Sean up with Tess. But I dismiss it immediately, realizing that they’d probably kill each other. Then me.
Jack holds his cig out between us, so I take a pull. “You know,” I say, trying to change the subject, “I’ve been thinking about this rule you have.”
“What rule?”
“Your No Fucking Groupies rule.”
He reclaims his cigarette and takes a drag. “What about it?”
“Well, I think it’s unrealistic.”
“How so?”
“Lots of ways.” I stand up and drape an arm around the lamppost. “I mean, first of all, you’re constantly out playing. Aside from a bar, where else do you plan on meeting someone if it’s not during a gig, someone who came to hear your music?”
Jack chucks the butt into the grass and answers, “Good point.”
“Secondly, your classification system is all wrong.”
He crosses his arms against his chest. “Pardon?”
“Your definition of ‘groupie.’ It’s… misogynistic.”
“Oh really?”
Grasping the lamppost in my hand, I lean my body away and swing toward him. “Yes. You think the mere fact that a girl has sex with musicians automatically lends a label. I mean, what about all those promiscuous cheerleaders who bang the whole football team? Or those girls who stalk famous actors into bed? There’s no official name for them.”
“Megaphone-Blowers and Starfuckers.”
I know he’s just trying to rile me up. “C’mon, Jack. You know what I’m saying. You label me as a groupie just because of my love of music.”
“A groupie’s most defining characteristic isn’t her love of music.”
The way he raises his eyebrow at that comment makes me think he’s politely trying to avoid calling me a slut outright. “So that makes me a common whore? How many women have you slept with? No one goes around calling you a whore!”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Surprised at your number or surprised how many times you’ve been called a whore?”
“Both. Now drop it.”
“No. I just—”
“You just want to justify turning me into another one of your conquests. And while I appreciate the offer, I’m telling you flat-out that it’s not going to happen. Not yet, anyway. I told you, I’m done being that guy.”
I stop swaying around the lamp and meet his eyes. “What changed you?”
“You.”
Ha! “Nic
e try. You were already on your celibacy crusade when I met you. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Didn’t you?” I look at him in confusion as my hand drops to my side, giving him my full attention. He lets out with an exaggerated sigh and runs a hand through his hair before explaining. “I never called you a whore, by the way. Nor would I. We obviously differ greatly in our definition of the word ‘groupie.’ I never said my problem was how much sex a groupie has had. That would be hypocritical of me, and I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a hypocrite. It’s the clinginess that I object to. The claws-out, dig-their-heels-in way they try to claim a piece of me. Always hanging around the band, following us from place to place.”
“Those are called fans, Jack.”
“Fans I can deal with. What those girls are doing is entirely different. A one-night stand I can handle, the shaking them off I cannot.” The revelation surprises me, but I’m even more stunned as he steps closer to deliver, “I finally got to the point where I wanted someone to stick around, but the problem was, I hadn’t met her yet. But I knew who she was. I knew who she’d be.” He runs a hand across my jaw, and I find myself melting more from his words than his touch. “I was waiting for you before I even met you. And finally, one night, there you were. With your witchy green eyes and your perfect, pouty mouth.”
“Why me?” I manage to squeak out.
“I don’t know, Lips. From that first minute with you, it was…”
“Electric?” I offer. It’s the word I always use whenever I think about the effect he had on me that first night.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.” His thumb is still rubbing gentle circles along my jaw as he adds, “But even more than that, it was what came after.”
“Making out in a storage closet?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Talking to you that day at the pool. I realized I liked you, Liv. A lot.” He smiles before adding playfully, “In spite of your awful taste in music.”
I can feel myself softening, and I’m not sure I like it. My defenses, my act, had been put in place years before, and now suddenly, Jack is making me feel like all those years of “fun” have been incredibly pointless. But he’s right: An empty life isn’t any sort of life at all.
