Weathering Jack Storm

by Lisa Gillis

  “Huh?”

  With a wry semblance of a smile, Marissa explained, “Just a joke.”

  Wandering, she tried to walk out her stress. Certifications littered a wall around a reception area. The room was empty of anyone, including the driver that had towed the car and taxied them here.

  Randi didn’t laugh. “You are going to do fine out here. California is an easy place to love. And Jack. I have never seen him so happy. He will make sure you fall in love with this new life.”

  Embarrassed that she had made this type of confession, even in jest, to this woman, and that it had progressed to this level, Marissa turned her focus away.

  Her guards were dissolving. Randi was too nice. Too genuine.

  Not at all plastic like she had pictured the typical California girl.

  But still, Jack had admittedly banged this beautiful creature. For that, Randi would always be unforgiven, untrusted.

  Even now, Randi was returning one of the numerous texts that had lit her phone for the past hour and a half. Yes, they had been stranded for an hour and a half, and they had been worried about twenty minutes of lost time.

  At first, Marissa was angry thinking that Randi was possibly keeping Jack updated, then she realized that other than the text that they had been in a wreck, and his immediate concerned phone call, she herself had not been updating him.

  As if feeling her unhappy thoughts from miles away, her phone bleeped. Jack. She confirmed his, ‘Still waiting?’ text with a sad emote, and he quickly returned, ‘Need Dax to pick you guys up?’

  Unexpectedly, she felt incredibly needy. Just joking, a moment ago, about going back home, made her wistfully picture her little family of three piled on her couch watching a Pixar movie. But she only typed back, ‘Shouldn’t be much longer, thanks.’ Jack sent back a heart, and she viewed it a bit before putting the phone away.

  “Is it okay if I have my dress delivered to your house?” Randi asked, looking up from the screen of her phone. “It’s getting late. My stylist can work on both of us there. Then, I will have a car service pick me up for the party. That way, you and Jack can have a real date night since you have a babysitter.”

  “Sure,” Marissa graciously agreed. Graciously, because the idea of Randi nude in the house was bothersome. “But I can do my own face and hair. I’m sure it is an inconvenience to not be at your own house.”

  “Nonsense.” Randi’s finger had been poised, prepared to set things in motion, and now she typed out the text while speaking. “I am quite used to it. Not being at your house, of course. But getting ready anywhere.”

  Pushing her tight lips into a smile, Marissa studied the other woman who paced while texting. Jack had been adamant that he and Randi were friends only. Why? So far, the beautiful woman seemed wonderful in every way. Marissa wanted to hate her, but at this rate, it would be hard to keep Randi from ascending to valued friend status.

  “Here’s the car!” The jubilant shout came from Randi who was out the door in a flash.

  Randi signed the necessary paperwork, and they were on their way. Randy drove. The rental was the same model as the car that was now a crushed aluminum can. The only noticeable difference was the color of the interior.

  As the city began to whip by the windows, Randi babbled. Knowing Randi was still being considerate about the wreck, Marissa tried not to be resentful when she spoke of replacing the car with the red one she had initially wanted.

  The chatter died as they turned on a familiar road. The secured drives were as closed off as they had been earlier this afternoon, but activity had picked up. A dog walker. A jogger.

  Randi plucked her phone from the dash dock and passed it over. “Call yourself. So that you will have my number.”

  Automatically, Marissa accepted the jeweled case, so that Randi could resume safe driving. When her eyes fell on the shiny, incredibly reflective, screen, she paused.

  “Cool isn’t it?” Randi smiled and explained, “It’s a mirror. You can’t imagine how handy.”

  Well, that explained Randi staring at her phone all day. Of course who could blame her? It was probably hard not to when you looked like that...

  Just as Marissa finished the thought, Randi grabbed at it, unlocked the screen, and then returned it. “Text me. Call me. Anytime. I know you might not think so right now, but you are going to love it here. California is amazing. You need to talk through something, or vent? I’m here.” Coasting into the driveway approach, Randi asked, “Can you get the gate?”

  Marissa glanced over, then back down. Randi’s phone was still in her palm, and her own phone sounded with a generic ring. With that deed done, she ended the call from Randi’s phone, and wryly returned, “I can’t. I don’t do gates yet.”

  “No time like the present.” Randi chirped and dictated, “Scroll to ‘Jack’. Expand. See ‘Gate’? Don’t press it yet. Delete the last digit, and then hit send.” As the iron bars rolled open, Randi grinned, “Now, send that number to your phone, so you have it.”

  “What is the thing with deleting the last number?”

  “Remember when Pru Ferris had her phone stolen? And Katelyn Harris had hers hacked?” Randi named two young celebrities. “It was not a good scene. A lot of lessons learned though. It’s just courtesy to protect your contacts information as if it were your own. It’s one thing to have to change your phone number. But to be home invaded by some stalker...”

  They shuddered at the same time. By this time, Randi had parked and was straightening from the car. The driveway was cluttered with at least three extra vehicles, maybe more.

  Leaning into the back, Marissa made a grab for her things as her empty-handed shopping companion began a carefree sprint up the stone steps. Barely slowing in her ascent, Randi turned. “Leave it, Mariss. Dax can bring it in. I have to use the powder room!”

  Dax can bring it in? She knew it was a shame to look so hard to find Randi’s flaws, but she actually felt giddy with each trivial discovery. Apparently, the other girl took liberties with treating Jack’s assistant as a pack mule when it would have been just as easy to split the load between them.

  “Go ahead!” Bending again, Marissa reached for and balanced the box, then hooked the smaller bag containing the accessories over her wrist. Hitting the car door mid-turn with her hip, she saw that Randi had made it to the top of the steps and frowned when the other woman easily punched in the code.

  Maybe she should have followed more closely so she could learn the house code, as well as the gate security, from this ‘friend’ of Jack’s. Annoyed at this point, Marissa thought about throwing the things back into the seat. She certainly would have if she thought it would be Jack fetching them from the car and not Dax.

  Irritably, she stomped up each step wondering why Leanna Miranda Gavin had even bothered earlier this afternoon to text and ring the doorbell. Obviously, the woman could have just waltzed in, as, apparently, she was costumed to doing!

  CHAPTER 11

  THE INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE seemed too quiet to have that many cars in the drive outside, and Marissa peered down the hall as she dropped the shopping load to the panther sofa in the entry.

  Enjoying the cool air on her perspiring face, and the shade on her retinas, she paused a moment. Then, venturing farther into the house, she found both Tristan and Dax asleep on the couch in front of an unwatched television.

  A closed pizza box was on the table along with a few water bottles. Had Tristan actually uncharacteristically drank water instead of juice? Maternally, she smoothed her boy’s hair. Lured by the possibility of food, she pulled the box to her side of the table. Luck was not with her. Tristan’s crusts were easily recognizable, as there were only a few, and she grabbed them all, munching them like bread sticks. A drink of the water washed them down, and she moved on back to the hallway.

  Standing in front of Jack’s music room, she hesitated. Remembering Randi’s familiarity with the house gave her the determination to put her hand to the latch. She lived here
now. Rapping, before pushing open the door, was her only concession.

  Five people, in various relaxed poses, were seated over the expanse of the room. Three of them were recognizable from Jackal mp3 cover art and videos.

  Chris turned a welcoming smile her way. The other guy curiously and cautiously appraised her, from head to toe, in a totally male way, before his gaze lingered on her face in speculation. The one female in Jackal, the bass player, held a warm smile. Another woman, just a few years older than the group, looked more than mildly annoyed at the interruption.

  Her eyes stopped on Jack.

  Jack was immediately on his feet closing the distance between them and dropping his head for a quick kiss. “You okay?”

  She nodded glad that his current stance protected her from the emerging stares of the room while she got her bearings.

  In their phone conversation following the wreck she had mentioned the airbag. One of his hands brushed the hair back from her face, which he examined for injuries. “I should have come.”

  “No. It was a fender bender—or two—or three.” Humorously, she added the last part remembering the group of banged up cars and distraught drivers as the rest of the interstate buzzed by.

  Quirking only the slightest smile at her attempt to make light of the pileup, he scanned her eyes with a worried glint. Aloud, he introduced her as he swung to her side and pulled her close.

  “So you already know that idiot,” Jack began with a finger point. In response, Chris winked and waved. “And those two idiots are Reed and Liz.” Reed’s intrigued look was quickly replaced by a courteous look and a hello. Liz was the next introduction, and her warm smile grew wider. “The drill Sargent there,” at this, the woman in her mid-thirties rolled her eyes, but finally flashed a smile, “is our publicist Emma.”

  Jack’s fingers curved possessively around her waist, and she felt the comforting pressure of their touch as he finished, “Guys—and non-guys, this is Mariss.”

  A chorus of greetings followed the introduction. Liz moved from the arm of the chair she shared with Reed to a home bar in the far corner. Deftly, the perky woman began to extract drinks from a mini fridge, and Chris hopped from his stool to help.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Emma complained, but relented when a Bacardi bag was shoved in her hand. “Alright, five minutes. Five. No more. If you need a piss break, get that out of the way.”

  “Chill, Emmajesty,” Reed admonished, “Ain’t every day Jack gets hitched. Now, if it were Liz…yeah, smack her in the head and carry on.”

  They all laughed, and when Marissa curved a smile, yet seemed lost, Liz leaned over to whisper, “I’m in the middle of my second divorce.”

  Marissa quickly sobered her grin, but before she could answer Liz, Emma was speaking again.

  “Jack’s revelation is precisely the reason that we are putting in the extra pow-wow time.” The retort was swift, but the rest of the room carried on unfazed.

  The ‘getting hitched’ phrasing already had Marissa’s mind reeling. She wondered what Jack had said about her and him, and their situation.

  Fresh annoyance crossed the publicist’s face when Chris made a toast to Jack, Marissa, and Tristan. Marissa drew in a sip of the cool lime slush and relaxed against Jack. Reed exited, presumably for the bathroom break. Liz pushed open one of several shutter type glass panes in a long low window, and sat in it as she lit a smoke.

  “Jack?” Emma pierced Marissa with a pointed glare. “I need a decision. Now. On her level.”

  “Five minutes, Em,” Jack returned, tipping a bottled beer toward his lips.

  “Three and counting,” the woman returned before excusing herself from the room.

  “Level?” Marissa paused steady slurps of the nerve calming drink to inquire about the exchange with Emma.

  “Journalists are given ahead of time an okay for questioning, or something like that. Level ‘one’ is the basic ‘how are you tonight?’ Logically, as the levels go up, the amounts and types of questions do.”

  Liz was drawing near, and inserted, “Of course’ it’s all money changing hands. But some publications have a longstanding agreement of level totals.” Shrugging, the vibrant girl cheerily declared, “I never understand. I just say what I’m told.”

  Marissa gulped another drink. Dread spilled through her gut, seeping and soaking into the stamina she had built for this new life. Living in the public eye was something that, on many nights lately, she had lain awake considering–along with everything else that came with Jack. Now that the technicalities of that publicity were upon her, panic pervaded.

  “Usually, you would be let off the hook with a zero or one,” Jack explained of the levels. “Especially at a casual party like this,”

  “Yeah,” Liz inserted. “The wives are lucky. They hide them.”

  Jack scowled darkly in response, and in good nature, the chatty bass player held her hands up in a surrendering pose before backing off.

  Gathering his thoughts, Jack continued, “Somehow word has already gotten around about Tristan, and I’m not going to hide something that will eventually come to light. That would make it look like I was ashamed of it in the first place. Which I’m not.”

  Her gaze slid from Jack’s face to the rest of the room. Liz was conversing with Chris. Reed returned with Emma on his heels.

  Jack continued, “Of the eleven interviews tonight, you have been requested in three. Two of those, you just laugh when I say something funny.” Here, he raised his brows pulling a giggle from her even in this nervous state. “Or give short answers. They know not to ask you anything crazy if you are a ‘one.’ But ‘Musicians Muse’ wants you as a ‘three.’” He named a publication quickly gathering the prestige of ‘Rolling Stone Magazine.’ “And our manager thinks this exposure would be good to kick off the album–and wants me to ask you to do it.”

  “Ask?” Emma sarcastically inserted from across the room. Like he had done to Liz, Jack glowered, but Emma held her ground. “Be straight with her. It’s more of an order.”

  “He may think he owns us. But he damn sure doesn’t own her.” Jack’s dark eyes flashed, and his tone was hard.

  Taking Marissa’s hand, he tugged her into the hall and then down the hall. Behind one side of a pair of double doors was a tiny bathroom and he pulled her in. The door softly clicked closed, and as she curiously examined the compact space, he turned away taking his, so eloquently called by Emma, ‘piss break.’

  Sensing there was more to this interview discussion than briefing her of her part in it, she leaned against the wall. “What do you want me to do?”

  Sidling up next to her, he rinsed his hands, dried them, and then raked them through his hair as he focused on his reflection.

  “This is the last record with this company. Tonight is the last of a few publicity appearances for them.” For a few moments, he dropped his eyes into the pedestal sink, and then turned. “I don’t want a company to capitalize on the most important thing to ever happen in my life.” His dark eyes were stoic with business, and then melted with emotion. “Our life.” The acute business persona stole back mixing with the other expressions on his features. “I want you to insist on remaining at a one. Also, require that a disclosure be made up stopping me, or anyone involved with the band, from talking about you or Tristan. From even saying or implying your name in an interview unless you consent.”

  “A disclosure against you?”

  Jack went on quickly explaining how his hands were legally tied when it came to the record label. And, that she could legally tie them in a way that freed him, in this one way, from the company’s demands. Then, when they got ready, they could announce themselves as a family. Because they wanted to. Not because some entity wanted to capitalize on it.

  “I thought you wanted to explain Tristan...”

  “Before this became a publicity circus, yes. As it is, it’s out there already. I’m sure they will hit you up to be allowed questions. But this way, we can
decide what we want to answer and when.”

  “Fine.” she agreed. When she laid her hand on his hand, to both give and seek support, he pulled her into a hug.

  “It won’t always be this crazy.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t care. She would take whatever came with being with him.

  His phone bleeped for the third time since their seclusion in the room. At last, he looked at it and then rammed it back into the clip. “Gotta get back. Get through this.”

  Back in the music room, Jack went directly to Emma.

  Marissa watched as they quietly spoke, and the publicist glared beyond him, at her. Obviously displeased, the woman gestured and rattled off something that could not be heard over the din of everyone else talking, and Liz’s spontaneous bass chords.

  Jack returned, and with his back to Emma flashed a smile. “So your level is a three for ‘Music Muse,’ and everything else we talked about is understood.”

  For another half hour, Emma referred to an electronic tablet as she schooled answers to dozens of questions as if she were a teacher and the band members were students. Then, she handed each a sheath of papers.

  As the others began scrawling what appeared to be multiple signatures, Emma began on Marissa. Like a drill Sargent, the woman did not let up until Marissa had memorized every word, of every answer, to every possible question.

  A couple of times Jack sent Marissa a look from across the table as if gauging her endurance. When “Emmajesty” finally dismissed everyone, no one wasted anytime exiting first the room, then the house.

  CHAPTER 12

  DAX AND TRISTAN HAD been joined in their nap session by Randi who lay stretched on the last empty length of the sectional.

  Marissa sank to share a cushion with Tristan’s feet. With much chagrin, she realized that her son had been wearing his new PJ’s for almost a full day. The windows were quickly losing light.

  Goodbyes echoed from the hall rousing the three of them, and Tristan’s sleepy eyes looked into hers.