Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (20 page)

Without a word to Jack, I sequestered myself in the bedroom for an uncharacteristic nap. Tristan was not in pain, and without Tylenol, I doubted he would nap. Until this surgery, he hadn’t napped in over a year.

Once, I heard the heavier footsteps of Jack advancing and then the click of the bedroom door easing completely closed. With the happy shrieks of Tristan and husky exclamations of Jack now muffled as they gamed, I dozed.

Dully, over supper, I watched father and son. I continued to produce stiff smiles in response to Jack’s stiff smiles as we both kept up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. The shopping trip today was my newest internal objection. Never had I been able to wow my son with much more than the Hot Wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had me wary and jealous.

Is this what joint custody, or God forbid, full custody would entail? Everything Tristan would ever want? Was that a bad thing after everything he had been through? Because he had such a good heart, it was hard to fathom the possibility of him becoming a spoiled brat.

Again, Jack left that night with barely a goodbye, and it was daunting to think of another four days and nights of this routine.

To make matters worse, my brother, who resided in Florida, inboxed me on Facebook to relate that our mother was not happy with the way I had “cast her aside.” While on the social network, I clicked over to Jack’s private page. We had friended while sitting in the hospital room among empty blizzard cups.

Jack’s status read, ‘
Chillin on the downlow
.’ There were several comments beneath it inquiring where he was vacationing, but he had yet to answer, at least not on his newsfeed.

Curiously, I clicked through his pictures, and halted, engrossed, on one of him wearing only swim trunks, posed on a beach with a female version of him. The picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and I scrutinized each person who Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv, or my parents, or even my distant siblings.

Stopping on an older version of Jack, I studied the man and the equally attractive woman his arm curved around—a couple who Tristan would soon call grandparents. Suddenly, I felt guilty for leaving my parents out of the loop and resolved to call my mother the next day.

I fell asleep on the couch and woke to the race game. Bally lay stretched out beside me. Only one of Tristan’s crutches lay in the floor area around him, and lifting my head, I looked, finding the other near the television. Every day he was getting stronger, less dependent on them. Carefully, I carried him to bed.

The next morning Jack showed up with breakfast burritos, and I hungrily inhaled mine before going into the spare room to work it off.

Music was pounding in my earbuds, keeping me immersed in an isolated world, when the prickle began. Hitching my chin, I found Jack malingering in the doorway, his eyes keenly attuned to my every movement.

C
learing one ear of the music obstruction, I inquiringly waited. After one of those heated looks that tickled my every nerve and flushed my insides, Jack spoke. “My lawyer guy just called back. The paternity test is canceled, and he’s drawing up the papers for monthly child support and temporary visitation—”

The jangle of his phone broke in, and after checking caller ID, he answered, “Yeah, Doug?” Listening intently, he remained looking at me and then stepped out of sight. Curiously, I plucked the other earpiece out just in time to hear, “Yes, I’m still moving forward with that. Please get it done as quickly as possible. Yes, she is. I’m talking to her now about it. Thanks, bro.”

He was right back with an apology, and this time, he stepped fully into the room as he picked up the interrupted conversation. “I’m just going to tell you what I’m thinking, and you tell me what you are thinking.”

Warily, I gave him my silent attention, and he went on.

“Tristan doesn’t begin school until next year. So staying with me for a week at a time, every five or six weeks, wouldn’t be hard on him in any way, you think? And about the holidays…” In my shock, his words lagged, and I gripped the handle of the exercise machine to stay upright. “My family has a huge Christmas, and I’d really like him to come this year.”

The requests were not unreasonable. Jack had missed three Christmases already. And a week every month or so, rather than a weekend every other week, was sensible as two days would be travel days.

Thinking of my baby on a plane terrified me. Thinking of my baby gone for Christmas, even though it was almost a year away, ripped my insides out.

Through my entire childhood, a serenity prayer plaque had a place on the kitchen wall in our family home, bearing words of wisdom, which I saw every day. Now a random phrase came to mind… ‘give me grace to accept…the things that cannot be changed…’

“When he flies, who will be with him?” Hearing the quake in my voice, I hastily cleared my throat and made a production of turning off the stair-master.

“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 leaving.

“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…”