Ace of Spades (8 page)

         
“To protect you from the man I’d become,” Jackson countered softly.

         
 “You were sixteen! You didn’t know what kind of man you were yet,” Melody
argued.

         
“I knew I wasn’t good enough for you then,” Jackson said, sadness weighing down
his words. “And I’m sure as hell not good enough for you now. The only
difference is, now I’m selfish enough not to care. I want you, Mel. And you
know me -- when I want something, I work for it until it’s mine.”

         
The man had a point. Not about his drive and persistence, although heaven knew
that was the truth too. But she knew, in a way, Jackson wasn’t good enough for
her.

         
Sure, he was probably the sexiest and most desired man alive. But he was also w
ay
too much trouble for a girl like her. She didn’t need the drama and the drugs.
She didn’t need a man who’d slept with every month of the Playboy calendar –
and all their sisters. She needed a good man.

         
“Yeah, right.
And all those other women were what,
practice? You’ve spent your adult life screwing anything in a skirt. How can
you possibly say it’s been me all along?”

         
Jackson frowned. The regret in his blue eyes looked so genuine; Melody almost
believed it was real.

         
 “Every single one of them was a futile effort to make me forget about
what I really wanted – you.”

         
Unbelievable.
A younger Melody would’ve given
anything to hear those words from Jackson. But he was eight years too late. He’d
told her to move on, so she had. She had a life, a boyfriend. He couldn’t just
come barreling back into her life, crook his finger at her, and expect her to
come running.

         
“J, I’m with Richard now. We’re… comfortable together.”

         
Jackson laughed.
“Hells bells, Mel.
When are you going
to realize that’s not enough for you? You don’t deserve just ‘adequate’ and ‘comfortable.’
You deserve exceptional, spectacular, and fan-fucking-
tastic
.
I’m going to prove that to you or die trying.”

         
“I don’t know what to say to that, J,” Melody sighed. “I don’t need those
things. I’m happy with things just the way they are.”

         
Jackson shook his head.
“Only because you don’t know any
different.
You’ve forgotten what it feels like to really live, Mel. You’re
alive, but you’re not living.”

         
Melody bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I live my life. I’ve made
my choices and you’ve made yours.” She indicated his sickly appearance with a
sweep of her hand. “And, honestly, looking at you, I think I’d rather be alive
and ‘not really living’ than live with some of the choices you’ve made.”

         
Jackson gave her a weak smile.
“Point taken.
I’ve made
my share of mistakes, but most of them I would make again in a heartbeat.
Mistakes are how we learn, how we grow, and how we become who we are.”

         
“Well, if your goal was to become a notorious womanizer, drug addict, and rock
star, I’d have to say you succeeded on an exceptional level.”

         
Jackson rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Mel. I meant that I’ve made
choices, good and bad, but I wouldn’t know what I know and feel how I feel if I
hadn’t had to live with the consequences of those decisions.”

         
Melody gaped at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me that you don’t regret
prison?
The drugs?
Any of it?”

         
Jackson’s pained smile cut her to the core. “Yes and no. There are things I wish
I could change that were beyond my control, but my only real regret was losing
you. That’s the only consequence of my choices I haven’t been able to live
with,” he said softly.

         
Melody scoffed in disbelief. “It didn’t have to be that way.”

         
“Yes it did, but that doesn’t matter now.” Jackson shrugged. “The past is the
past. I’m much more interested in the future.”

         
“And what future is that, J?” Melody asked, both desperate and afraid to hear
the answer.

         
“You and me, together -- that’s always been the end game. Everything else was
just a detour on the road to that eventuality.”

         
“You’re awfully confident for a man with the odds stacked against him.”

         
Jackson
grinned
that heart-stopping, lopsided grin and
pointed to the ace of spades tattooed on his forearm. “Lucky for me, I’ve got
an ace up my sleeve.”

         
 Melody rolled her eyes.
“Oh, yeah?
And what
would that be?”

         
He tipped his head to give her a sideways look. “A good bluffer never tells.”

         
“Yeah, only because he has squat in his hand.”

         
Laughter danced in Jackson’s azure eyes. “I guess we’ll just have to see how
the cards fall.”

         
Mel straightened and lowered her voice.
“Just don’t go ‘all-in’
on this one, J.
I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

         
“
Melly
-Belly, I went ‘all-in’ a long time ago,” he
whispered back.

         
Melody practically leapt out of her skin when Lenny’s heavy hand landed on her
shoulder. The big man stood behind the two of them, one hand on each of their
shoulders, with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Enough of
the foreplay and cheesy card references, you two.
We have
work
to do.”

         
Melody’s cheeks burned with mortification. Apparently the rest of their party
hadn’t been as oblivious to their quiet conversation as she’d hoped. In fact,
quite the opposite – they all seemed tuned in to the ‘Melody and Jackson show’
as though it was a prime time event. Great, all they needed was popcorn.

         
Melody sighed. If she was going to be Jackson’s right hand, she might as well
get used to being watched. Between his entourage and the paparazzi, the man
never went anywhere alone. Even at that moment, Melody spotted photographers
positioned outside the coffee shop, their telephoto lenses pointed in their
direction.

         
Dreading the potential tabloid headlines, Melody tried to ignore them. She’d
just have to be extra careful around Jackson, so as not to give them the wrong
idea. The last she needed was to fuel Richard’s paranoia with a gossip column
insinuating there was anything besides friendship between her and Jackson.

         
Pasting a smile on her face, she looked up at Lenny. “Let’s get to it then.”     

A

         
Much to Melody’s dismay, the majority of Jackson’s staff stuck around after her
little coffee shop intro. Not that she disliked any of them, but she wanted the
smallest audience possible as she learned the ropes of her new job.
The less people around, the less people to see her stumble and
fall.

         
But then she realized there was nothing to fail at. Jackson needed her about as
much as a rainforest needed a sauna. He had all his business needs covered.
Sheila handled his public relations and media involvement. Miles handled the
business side of his music and record company. And Tracie took care of his
mundane day to day needs. What did that leave for Melody to do?
Jackson-sit.

         
It was
official,
Melody was the highest paid
babysitter in the world. Or classiest paid ‘companion.’ She didn’t know which
was worse. Regardless, the momentary illusion that he actually needed her for
her skills and education was shattered. He’d made the job up for her. The
question was,
why?

         
Melody
was pretty sure she didn’t want to know the answer.

         
But she listened attentively as Miles and Sheila discussed the press release
for the benefit concert and Kip ran through the stage set up with the band. She’d
fallen into an alternate universe.
One where she worked for a
rock star in an undefined role.
All she could hope was that she’d find
some sort of professional fulfillment in her odd new career path.

         
When at last Jackson’s team went their separate ways, Melody found herself
walking to her car with Jackson at her side.

         
“So, first item of business,” Melody started, turning to Jackson as soon they
were alone. Well, as alone as they could be with Lenny and his team holding a
wide perimeter. “We need to get you in to see a doctor.”

         
Jackson frowned. “No.”

         
“Why not?”
Melody challenged. “J, you clearly need
help.”

         
“No doctors. I don’t have time for rehab.”

         
Melody sighed in frustration. “Jackson, look at you. You’re miserable. You’re
sick. You need to see a doctor. Maybe they can give you something to help you
through the worst of the withdrawals.”

         
Jackson shook his head. “They’ve tried before. Nothing helps. I have to do this
on my own.”

         
Mel bit her lip, studying him from beneath furrowed brows. “I just can’t stand
to see you like this, J, knowing that I did this to you.”

         
Taking her hand in his, Jackson gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You didn’t do
this.
I
did. And I’m the only one who can undo it.”

         
“But—”

         
“No ‘buts,’ Mel. I can do this.” He gave her a weak smile. “I’ll be fine.”

         
Mel gave him a dubious look.
“If you say so.”

         
“Just give me a few days and I’ll be feeling better,” he assured her, not
looking too convinced himself.

         
“I hope so. Are you going to be feeling up to the benefit concert this weekend?”

         
Jackson shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”

         
“Try not to sound so confident,” Melody said dryly.

         
“Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not looking forward to the next several days of
torture. It’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.”

         
“Well, I’m here for you, J, if you need me,” Melody offered, wishing she could
take away his misery.

         
Jackson shook his head again, his lips twisted into a sad smile. “I know, but
these next few days are going to be ugly. I don’t want you to see me at my
worst. Take a few days off, Mel, get things in order so you’re ready to come on
tour next week. I’ll see you at the benefit concert on Saturday night.”

         
Melody arched her brows at him. “Are you sure? I feel like I should be here to
help you. Besides, it seems kind of silly to take time off after my first day.”

         
Jackson shrugged. “Everything is pretty much taken care of right now. It’ll be
fine.”

         
“Okay,” Melody
agreed,
her tone dubious. “But you have
my number if you need me.”

         
“I’ll always need you, Mel.”

         
“Don’t start that again,” Melody sighed, shaking her head at him.
Hopeless,
the man was hopeless.
“I’ll see you Saturday.”

         
In spite of her protests, his smile warmed her from head to toe. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter
9

Rock
‘n roll

Two days later

         
“Jack, you can’t keep going like this. You’re killing yourself, man.”
Shortie
insisted, eyeing Jackson in a combination of pity
and disgust.

         
He couldn’t argue. He’d seen better days.      

         
“Forget
you
,”
Shortie
amended. “Hell, it’s killing
me
to see you like this.”

         
With shaky hands, Jackson swiped at the perspiration dampening his brow. He was
a clammy, miserable mess. Everything hurt. And he was painfully aware of every
second that ticked slowly by.

         
But it would all be worth it, if it kept Mel around for good.  He needed
her more than the smack. Or so he’d believed before his body rebelled and
insisted he was mistaken.

         
“Nah, I’m good,” Jackson half-heartedly lied.
“Never been
better.

         
“Bullshit,”
Shortie
argued, his raised voice throwing
leverage behind the pounding in Jackson’s head. “I’ve seen road kill that
looked better than you do right now.”

         
“Maybe you need to back over me again then,” Jackson grumbled, wishing his
friend would just leave him to suffer in silence.

         
“I
would if I thought it might
knock some sense into
you,”
Shortie
said in exasperation. “You can’t go on
stage like this. You need a hit.”

         
Jackson sighed. “I can’t. I promised Mel I’d sober up. It’s part of the deal.”

         
“Are you insane?”
Shortie
squawked, doing little for
Jackson’s head. “No chick is worth that. Want my advice?” He didn’t wait for
Jackson to respond. “Ditch the bitch. Get back to living your life your way.”

         
If it didn’t hurt to move, Jackson would’ve slugged the little man for calling
Mel a bitch. As it was, he just glared at his friend from his prostrate
position on the couch. He could beat the shit out of the man when he felt human
again.
If
he ever felt human again.
  “No.
I need her.”

         
“No, you need your dope.”

         
Jackson’s body agreed. It begged for it, craved it unlike anything he’d ever
craved before. Yet, he knew he could do this. The cravings would pass. Even
though it felt like he might die from withdrawals, he wouldn’t. He would live
and the pain and misery would pass. 
Yeah, right.
 

         
“She’s worth it,
Shortie
,” Jackson insisted, unsure
if he hoped to convince his friend or himself.

         
Shortie
sighed. “Then cancel the tour. See a doc and
check in to one of those overpriced rehab joints. No more of this
a la
canona
shit.”

         
Jackson raked a trembling hand through his hair. “I can’t. It’s already sold
out. We owe it to our fans.”

         
“Yeah, well, we owe it to those fans to actually
perform
at those shows.
And with the way you’re looking, Jack, you’re not up for performing anything.”

         
“Do you have a better idea,
Shortie
? Or did you just
come to bitch at me while I suffer?” Jackson growled.   

         
“Yeah, I do,”
Shortie
said with a grim smile. “You’re
not going to like it though.”

         
“Hit me with it.”

         
Shortie
tossed a syringe with a capped needle onto
the coffee table next to Jackson. Jackson tipped his head to the side to look
at it,
then
shifted his gaze back up to the ceiling.

         
“No.”

         
“It’s a low dose speedball, Jack. The coke will counteract the side effects of
the heroin and vice versa, so Melody will never know,”
Shortie
explained,
his voice low and grim. “Of course, coke
breaks down faster than H, but
Lenny’ll
have another
hit ready for you.”

         
Jackson closed his eyes in response.

         
“Think about it, Jack. I know this isn’t the answer you want, but it’s a
temporary fix. Use it to get through the tour, then you check into rehab and
get all kinds of squeaky clean for your uptight little Ms. Rabbit.”

         
Jackson closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears to the voices of
temptation – both inside and outside of his head. “Go away,
Shortie
,”
he sighed. “And take that shit with you.”

         
“Regardless, get your shit together. We go on in fifteen.”
Shortie
paused to rake him with a disdainful scowl,
then
stomped out of the room, leaving the speed ball on the table beside Jackson.

         
As much as Jackson hated to admit it, his friend had a point. He couldn’t think
straight, let alone perform like this. Would it be so bad to get the monkey off
his back for a few hours? The only problem was
,
he’d
have to keep it a secret from Mel. He hated the idea of lying to her. But he
hated the idea of losing her again even more. Besides, it wasn’t really lying.
He had every intention of sobering up after the tour.

         
Jackson rolled up into a sitting position and studied the syringe. It was his
medicine and his poison. He could end all this suffering in an instant. Mel
never liked to see him suffer, so she’d understand.
Right?

         
Fuck it
. He had no other choice. He couldn’t live like this. Jackson
stumbled across the hotel room to retrieve his duffel. He fished out the ‘first
aid’ kit he took everywhere with him and carried it back to the couch. With a
deep breath, he unzipped the green canvas case and delved inside.

         
His choice of tourniquet sat on top -- a repurposed laptop security cable –
tubular and plastic-coated, with a loop at the end. He rummaged through the
remaining innocuous contents, searching for the few items that were actually
useful – antibiotic ointment, burn cream, gauze pads, chemical ice pack,
bandages, tape…
aha
, alcohol wipes. Perfect. The last thing he wanted to
do was make his arm rot off, especially if he planned to keep this on the down
low.

         
Sliding the looped cable around his left bicep, Jackson held the end with his
teeth and pulled the cable taut. He pumped his fist as the cord constricted the
blood flow and juiced up his veins. Swiping the fat vein in the crook of his
arm with an alcohol wipe, Jackson thanked his lucky stars his tattoos would
hide the bruising certain to follow. With shaking hands, he grabbed the
syringe, uncapped it, and jammed the spike into his vein. Letting loose his
hold on the tail of the
tourniquet,
he slammed the plunger
of the syringe home.

         
And released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The combined rush
spread through his body like wildfire, its warmth coursing through him as his
nervous system struggled to process the conflicting signals. He was soaring,
strapped to a rocket as he blasted through the stratosphere. He was alive as
never before. There was nothing like it. Sure, he’d done coke before, and God
knows he’d done plenty of
heroin
, but
nothing
compared to the rush of the two together.

         
As the initial rush faded, the familiar high of cocaine set in. He could do
anything. Be anything. He had a show to put on. It was time to grab his guitar
and get out there.
Time to rock Melody’s world.

A

         
“Hey, J.”

         
Jackson looked up from tuning his guitar at the sound of Melody’s voice. He’d
never get used to the way his heart soared every time she came near. Surely the
coke played its part, but his pulse raced on its own accord at the sight of
her. Being around Mel was like stepping out into the sunshine after years of
being locked inside. She made Jackson want to tip his head back and soak her in
like the warmth of the sun.

         
But then he saw who she was with and his heart plummeted back down to the
Shitville
he called ‘reality.’ Melody stood a few feet
away, holding hands with the man Jackson could only presume was the ass-wipe
boyfriend she talked about.

         
With a stick up his ass and
an
I
’m-too-good-for-this-place-and-everyone-in-it
attitude, the guy may as well have tattooed ‘douche bag’ on his forehead.
Jackson considered telling him so, but then thought better of it. Mel’s face
would probably turn the color of her hair and, while she was cute that way,
pissing her off would take him in the opposite direction of his goal.

         
“Jackson, this is my boyfriend, Richard. Richard, this is my old friend and new
boss, Jackson.”

         
Richard cleared his throat and inspected Jackson as though he was an unexpected
smear of dog shit on the bottom of his tacky, tasseled loafers. “Richard James
Worthington, the Fourth.”

         
The fact that Richard didn’t extend his hand wasn’t lost on Jackson. Not that
he cared. Hell, the tool probably carried a handkerchief to cleanse his hands
of any unworthy contact. Never mind that Jackson could buy him and his
pretentious suit a million times over.

         
But that was beside the point. Jackson didn’t give a shit about the money. It
was about Mel. As he’d expected, the guy was a tool and didn’t deserve her. Who
the hell wore a suit to a rock concert?
Apparently, this
dude.

         
Setting aside his guitar, Jackson rose to his feet. Unfolding to his full
height, he towered over the other man. Richard puffed out his shoulders as
though he hoped to make himself seem bigger. Jackson smirked down at him with
masculine pride. The dude probably overcompensated with a big truck too.

         
Neglecting to offer his hand as well, Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets
instead. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dick. I’ve heard so much about you.
That said, Mel’s words were nowhere near
adequate
,” Jackson gushed,
knowing full well that Mel would recognize the jibe.

         
Richard’s jaw tensed until Jackson thought it might crack.
Good
. Let him
break his own jaw. It would save Jackson the trouble.

         
“Jackson,” Mel
scolded,
her tone low and warning.

         
Jackson shrugged at her. “What? Don’t you remember Little
Dickie
Anderson who lived down the street from us as kids, Mel? His name was Richard,
but his parents called him ‘Little
Dickie
.’ Poor
bastard never lived it down -- got called that all through school. Hell, he’s
probably still running around hiding from that awful name. Dick, however, is a
much more respectable nickname.
Although, it might be giving more
credit than credit is due.”

         
“I remember, but—” Melody started, but was cut off.

         
“It’s Richard James,” Richard corrected through gritted teeth, eyeing Jackson
as though he was a spider he’d caught scampering across his pillow.

         
Jackson couldn’t help it -- the name made him think ‘Rick James,’ which led to
a rousing rendition of ‘Super Freak’ playing on repeat in his head. Only Rick
James had a hell of a lot more personality in his little finger than this idiot
had in his whole body.
Oh, wait, he was still talking…

         
“But I understand if that’s too much for someone of your intellect and
background to remember. You may call me Mr. Worthington, if you prefer.”

         
“Rich—”

         
“Oh, I think I can come up with something better than that,” Jackson
interjected with a mischievous grin.
“How about Richie?”
He raked the man from head to toe with his own imperious gaze.
“Although, by the looks of it, maybe Not-So-Richie would be more
fitting.
How does it feel to know someone of my
background,
as
you call it, can make more in one night than you can make in a whole year,
Ricky-Boy?”