by Lisa Gillis
“My father has a jet charter membership. An adult in the family will always fly with him.”
I knew what he was speaking of, having once heard a VIP player at my craps table explaining the benefits of paying a yearly membership fee to access an extravagant jet fleet.
“A private plane? Is that safe? I would feel better if he flew, you know, on an airline…”
Understanding glimmered in his eyes. A shared concern for one little boy. “It’s safer than commercial. These planes are less than five years old, and we do a background check on the pilots. That’s when one of us doesn’t do the flying ourselves. We’re paranoid freaks when it comes to plane safety.”
Thrown off track, I inquired, “You fly? As a pilot?”
“Not anything big. Just smaller planes.”
“Did you fly yourself here?”
“I hadn’t had enough sleep, so no. Seriously, I only fly on occasion when there’s not a better option.”
In trying to convince me, he was only causing more misgivings. It seemed that private planes were always making headlines– and not in a good way.
Assessing my reaction, he added, “You could come with him if you wanted. The pilot could fly you right back, or you could stay a few days. Or whatever, until you’re comfortable with it.”
Tristan’s visitation was inevitable, and I nodded in acceptance while at the same time, considering a stipulation about the flight. It would not be unreasonable to request that Tristan fly on a commercial airline. Right?
Jack went on, interrupting this silent speculation. “Also, I was thinking, he should have my last name. If we do it now before he starts school next year, it would be less confus—”
My eyes whipped to his face, and his words wisely halted. I knew, just as inevitably as some form of shared custody, Tristan would also end up with Jack’s name. He was a son carrying on a bloodline. It wasn’t so medieval that it wasn’t right.
However, it was too overwhelming to take in right now, and I descended from the electronic stairs, needing out of this room that now reverberated with disturbing words. Jack stopped me just before the door.
His hands settled lightly on my waist, and he tilted his head to mine. Brown eyes melded deep into the mirrors of my soul, and although I could feel the breath of the kiss, it didn’t follow.
Sweeping his fingers up, he caressed, the touch pleasantly burning through the thin shirt, which clung to my sweaty skin. His palms stopped, and his breath paused and then released with a sigh when he cupped the curves restrained by the sports bra. Dropping his eyes to this destination, he gave up one hold, using the fingers of that hand to brush from collarbone to cleavage.
“Reminds me of the day we met.” The words of recollection were soft, and his dark regard came back to my face.
“How so?” I wasn’t flirting, but the look in his eyes made my inquiry breathless. Genuinely, I sought to understand how today’s attire of boxers, a tank-top, and a bra that flattened my chest, could remind him of the day when I had, with such care, dressed for the Hang Fest in hopes of ‘hooking up.’
“You were flushed and sweaty.”
“Gee. Thanks. I remember being embarrassed that I was hot and sweaty.”
“I liked it. Looked like you had already rolled out of my bed.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say this stuff…”
Truthfully, I loved it. With simple words, or simply a look, he could make me feel sexy and desired. However, that all changed when our relationship changed. Now, these types of comments made me feel toyed with.
“Why?”
“Just don’t, okay?”
“Okay.” He promptly dipped for that kiss which was so close.
In a room full of strength building exercise paraphernalia, I fell weakly against his chest, savoring the brushes of his lips and tongue on mine. The sound of a car race in the other room was a stark contrast to the quiet sounds of our kissing.
When he straightened to his full height and seemed about to leave things there, I protested again, “And that. Why do you do that?” A slight lift of his brows was his silent invitation to continue. “I wasn’t done. You don’t get to do that. Just because you’re stronger and taller.”
A rippling movement of a smile touched over his freshly kissed lips. Catching a hold of my hand, he straddled the weight bench in two strides, his seat bringing him significantly to my level. “All yours,” he invited.
Tranced, I lifted an ankle over the bench then lowered onto it. My hands rested on his shoulders, and I breathed him in but only leaned my forehead against his. My gaze played in chocolate irises, and I found there was a truer definition of eye-fuck than the one Olivia and I had jokingly tossed out all these years.
Finally, I kissed him with all my heart and every bit of my soul and with boundless passion.
How could I crave him this deeply despite what he was doing to my life? It was then I speculated why he pulled back earlier. Was he this conflicted? If so, did that mean he cared for me? How could he and still wreck my world? Because of these questions, the kiss felt as wrong and weird as it felt good, and I paused with my head against his again.
“What are we doing? Where are we going with this?” In despair, I verbalized my innermost soul-search.
The seconds spanned, then in a dry drawl, he returned, “I don’t know. You should be careful, playing a rapist like this.”
In that moment, I almost hit him. When I thought back on it, I was never sure I hadn’t because I shoved away so hard and so fast. Before I could actually get away, he clamped onto both wrists.
“I’m sorry, I. Fuck, I’m so sorry…”
When I jerked again, he released his hold, and freed, I paused. We were both standing with one leg on each side of the bench. Again, he apologized when I should have been the one apologizing for ever threatening him in the first place. Yet, some stubbornness held me mute. He had ruined an impassioned moment, and why? It was then I understood that I had hurt him as much as angered him with my words that day. However, he had hurt me first.
“Okay.” I acknowledged his apology but unable to accept it yet, whispered, “I need to— I need— to go—”
With that said, I bolted.
Tristan turned from the television as I sprinted through the den en route to my room.
“Hey mom, check this out! So dope!”
Pulling up short, I detoured and came to stop between him and his game. “Quit saying that!”
I was beginning to feel like the echo effect of a rap mix. First to his father, and now to him. Don’t do that. Don’t say that. Who was I becoming?
“Mom?” The game controller slipped forgotten into his lap, and his lip actually quivered. “I won’t say it. I’ll stop.”
Rarely, had I ever said a harsh word to Tristan. Never had I seen a kid so well-behaved, and sometimes I wondered if it came from not being exposed much to other kids. He lived in an adult world.
“Thank you.” The desire was strong to run over and to bear hug away the hurt I had just caused, but I didn’t, and I didn’t know why. When I pulled my attention from my son’s dejected face, it fell on Jack who stood in the spare room doorway wearing the same expression as Tristan.
Firmly squaring my shoulders, I turned to the hallway. Behind me, Tristan wondered in a small voice, “What word, Momma?”
Pausing, I spoke without turning back, “Nothing, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
My own home had become hostile, and I had lost count of the times in just a couple of days that I had used my bedroom as a hideaway.
Jack’s voice mingled with Tristan’s as they played their guitars. Slow choppy notes followed steady ones. Jack let me be for a while and then, with a quiet rap at the door, came in to tell me that Tristan was eating a sandwich.
“You want anything?” His inquiry was caring, concerned.
Yes. You. Us. How I thought we could be .
When I ignored him, he backed the few steps to the threshold but paused before lea
ving.
“Marissa? I swear I never used the word ‘dope’ to him. I think he must have heard me on the phone talking to Dax.”
Although I didn’t know the person he was speaking of, I found his humbleness comforting, and I let my gaze sink into his brown eyes.
“Why is he calling me ‘Mom’ now?”
When Jack asked what I meant, I explained never hearing that particular proper noun until the previous day, and that now, I’d heard it numerous times.
“I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I’ve been referring to you in that way. Like saying, ‘Let’s get your mom ice cream.’ I’ll make sure I start saying Momma, okay?” When I only shrugged, he whispered, “Marissa? I hate seeing you so stressed and sad.”
Somehow, he had closed the distance between us, and his kiss lacked any of the fiery passion of a couple of hours ago. It was sweet and comforting with an assurance of something I couldn’t quite grasp.
“Jack?” Reaching for him when he pulled back, I admitted, “I’m sorry for saying that about the…” Now that I was not infuriated, I could not say the ‘R’ word. “Sorry about saying I would use some lie in your past against you. I wouldn’t, you know.” I didn’t think.
“I’m sorry I got mad at you for saying it.” Picking up my hand, he rubbed the palm with his thumb. “I know I’ve just known him for a couple of weeks, but I’d do anything I had to do to protect Tristan, and that’s all you were doing. And I know—I’ve come to realize that this is moving fast. That you don’t know what kind of person I am, and if I could even be responsible with him. But, I promise you, I swear to you I’ll be a good father.” His earnest gaze was on me, but I couldn’t look at him just yet. “I grew up in a close family. There were always kids around, and even when we were kids, we looked after our cousins. Lately, I keep my sisters kids all of the time, taught them to swim…”
“I know, Jack.” When he ran out of steam, I felt the need to fill in the gap. “I would be fighting you every step of the way with even the slightest custody, wouldn’t let you be here with him, wouldn’t have let you take him out yesterday, if I didn’t know so.”
The clank of a crutch echoed in the hall, and as Tristan was moving much easier, stronger and faster each hour, we barely had time to jump a space apart on the bed before he appeared in the door.
“Finished my lunch,” Tristan proudly announced, and asked of the game he’d quickly become addicted to, “Who wants to race me?”
Curving an instinctive smile when I saw he was unconsciously swinging his crutches around, as he stood balanced just fine, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was riding the red bike Jack had promised him. Or, playing basketball with the shorty goal brought in from the car yesterday along with other prized items, like a black hoodie and the temporary tattoos, which now decorated his tiny arms.
“Come’re, sweetheart. Jack and I need to talk to you.”
Interested, he obediently closed the distance, and I held his crutches as Jack pulled him onto the bed. Over Tristan’s head, I sought silent substantiation from Jack and took in a deep fortifying breath.
“Remember we talked about your daddy a couple of times?”
Tristan had been quick to figure out that a true family unit began with a Momma and a Daddy. Possibly, from his shows, or maybe he had rationalized his grandparents relation to me and deduced from there. In whatever way it had happened, he had been curious enough to question things I was not ready to answer at his young age.
Nodding, Tristan tilted his head upward to Jack. “My daddy lives in Cally Fornya”
The pronunciation of California threatened to crack me up every time. To me, ‘Cally Fornya’ screamed stripper stage name.
Jack reeled with Tristan’s revelation for a different reason. I saw the surprise in his eyes. He had never expected Tristan to know even a minute detail like that, and his look locked with mine.
“And he likes to sing! Like me!”
Another spark lit Jack’s eyes, and although the emotion wasn’t clear, it was good.
“Tristan.” Stroking his back, I waited until he looked at me. “Remember, I told you that when you got bigger we would talk again about your daddy? Well, you’re bigger, and we’re going to talk now.” Instinctively, realizing the seriousness, that this talk was about to change his life, his eyes grew large and his bottom lip tucked under his teeth in a nervous gesture. “When you had your surgery, I called… I mean your daddy…”
Heaving a breath, I blurted, “Jack is your daddy.”
Transfixed, his eyes stayed on my face before comprehension dawned, and his wide dark gaze searched mine. Transparent, the emotions went through his eyes like a slide show.
Stupefied. Happy. Wary. Wonder.
My hand slid to his shoulder in support. When Jack’s hand rested on his other shoulder, Tristan swiveled, and I was no longer privy to his feelings. Instead, I watched Jack’s face, and the tenderness playing over his features.
Quietly, we let the news settle on him and then softly, Jack said, “If you have any questions, you can ask me or your mom— ma.” Hastily, he added the last syllable.
“Do I say Jack or Daddy?”
“What do you want to say?” Jack’s eyes anxiously met mine as he voiced the question to his son.
“Daddy.”
CHAPTER 26
Jack’s face radiated an aura of so many emotions. His eyes were glowing as they ran gratefully over my face, and he gently pulled Tristan’s shoulder to him in a tentative hug. Tristan turned, throwing both arms around Jack’s neck, clamoring to his lap. Easing up, I left the two alone.
Moving about in the kitchen, I assembled a large salad and raked part of it into a serving bowl, before putting the rest in the fridge to chill for supper. Because I had ended up binge eating the ice cream the previous night, and had not completely worked off the loaded breakfast burrito this morning, I shook a few drops of olive oil and vinegar in lieu of my favorite ranch salad dressing.
Before settling at the bar with the light lunch, I dumped the red beans, soaked since early morning, into the slow cooker. Next, I tossed in a large sausage link, along with heavy sprinkles of creole spice.
Ironically, just as I finished my last lettuce leaf, Jack and Tristan proposed an ice cream trip. Again. The amount of ice cream brought into this house was maddening. I gained a half a pound every time I walked near the freezer.
“Coming with, Mariss?”
Mariss. At the last use of that endearment, I had been in his arms. Well, my legs had been in his arms…
“Come on, Momma. You need to get out of the house.” Tristan peered from over the couch where he was powering off his game, and I burst into agreeable laughter. As humorous as it was to hear that quote from a four-year old, he was right.
Tristan prattled on from the back seat of Jack’s Audi rental about what flavors he wanted in his three scoops, and Jack, after playfully lending counsel, glanced from the road to me, then back again.
“What flavor for you?”
“Banana pudding.” It was one of my favorite desserts, and the frozen version was just as delicious.
“Good choice,” he approved. “All scoops or just the first?”
“The one and only scoop.”
“You aren’t seriously getting only one scoop?” His tone dripped disapproval.
“That’s all she ever gets,” Tristan piped, leaning as far as his seat belt would allow toward the gap between the two front seats. “If she gets any scoops. Most of the time, she just eats bites of mine.” The last part was a disagreeable grumble.
I twisted my head surprised. My son had always generously shared the bites I became carried away with, but obviously, he harbored a secret grudge.
“I promise to stay out of yours, you little ice cream miser,” I teased and released some of my slight animosity in a sigh.
“I think you should have a scoop of peach with the banana,” Jack stoically advised, the smirk dancing in his dark eyes instead of on h
is lips
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Trust me, it is.” He came back smoothly in the tone of a flavor connoisseur.
“I just want one scoop. Is that a freakin’ felony?”
He laughed, and I loved hearing the sound again. Here, in the car, almost to the shop, which boasted over two-hundred flavors of homemade ice cream, it was too easy to pretend we were a real family and not just bonded by blood.
The feeling pervaded as we strolled into the cold building with Tristan riding piggyback on Jack. Once inside, Jack turned to allow his passenger an easy view of the flavors, which put him face to face with me.
I studied his features, wondering if we were back to the way things were before the fight, or if our words were still wedged between us. And I wondered where I wanted us to be. I didn’t want to be hurt again, and yet, I wanted every piece of him I could have, until having him was no longer an option.
Having Jack in my world, lending his support during a vulnerable time had temporarily deluded me, and I now realized that much. The way sex had become a meaningless thing the second we argued had opened my eyes. The texts coming in every other hour on his phone, the calls he took to the privacy of the patio, all of this and more drove home the fact that there was another life waiting for him on a different coast. Rock stars married models, not casino workers—even when the average woman was his baby momma.
Even after having plenty of thinking time in the car, Tristan took another ten minutes to narrow his choices down to three. All the while, even throughout my serious thoughts, Jack and I indulgently smiled and made faces as the teenager holding the empty scoop grew more and more impatient with his tiny customer.
Once we were in the car, I began passing Tristan napkins along with precautions against making a mess. Jack shrugged it off. “It’s a rental. So what if they throw an extra charge on for cleaning? We had fun, and that’s what’s important.”
Turning away from our drippy kid, I lightened up. Jack, I was learning, came from a well-to-do family even before making it big in music. He would never understand the equal ratio of money to fun. Maybe Tristan would grow up with a healthy balance.
