Jack Who? (Silver Strings G Series) (12 page)

Her breath felt sucked out in a suffocating second, and she sought sanity. Maybe this wasn’t as sinister as it sounded. It was expected that he would want some time– perhaps weekends and holidays. She recalled her own childhood.

The next level, joint custody, would rip her in two, but if it happened, she was beginning to see how great of a father he would be. As for full custody, she couldn’t even think it without tearing.

“What then? Holidays?” Studying his stoic face, she pushed out the words seeking clarification. “Joint?”

Finally, he spoke, but it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I want more than that. So much time h
as been wasted. I want it all–”

“Noo!” The word growled out of her mouth as more than one syllable, and she felt like she was going to puke. “No.”

She wanted to scream every curse she knew and call him every ugly name. She wanted to cry. She wanted to take Tristan and run. Instead, a plea squeaked from kiss swollen lips. “Don’t do this...”

“Listen,” Before she could blink, he was across the room kneeling beside her, but the harder she hurt, the harder her heart became.

How could he have shared a passion so hot and all along had this agenda simmering on the back burner. There is no way he gave a damn about her, and if he was this cold, there was no way he ever would.

‘
Did you tell her? I can’t wait to meet him.
’ The text flashed into her mind. She supposed he had just been told. And the next text, the beautiful Leanna Miranda Gavin,
‘Sugar, sugar, sugar...’

Are WE banging as friends
? Her thoughts took that ugly turn. Is that all Jack was capable of?
What if Leanna Miranda silently loved him too?

Phase three: ‘Make Jack love me as much as I love him’. Epic fail.

Putting as much distance as possible between them, she swore, “I will fight you on this. And I may not have money. But don’t forget, I know things.”

“What do you know?” Getting back to his feet, he seemed slightly crestfallen but also amused as if it were one of their word games. Defiant dark brows arched. “That I sit at home with my dog most nights? That every chance I get I spend it with my family? A stable family I might add. Parents who are loved by the public and who have been married for more than half their lifetime. A grandmother who hasn’t missed a church service in twenty years. A sister who is the newest sensation of the surfing culture, and an uncle and grandfather that–”

“You have a rape charge that was never resolved!” Interrupting his accolades, she spat the threat.

ASTONISHMENT CROSSED HIS
face, maybe that she would even say such a thing to him.

Suddenly, it felt strange to her too, that she could respond with such hate after reacting with the degree of love and passion that passed between them minutes ago. Part of her was sick at the evil words that she had just flung between them. Did this make her as cold as him? Still, she rationalized; like a mother lion, she was fiercely protecting Tristan even if she had to take a tiger by the tail.

“I explained that to you.” He seemed hurt by her words, disappointed in her, and ashamed that this thing was a part of his past. “It’s not true, and you said you knew.”

“You should go.” Unable to look at the mixture of emotions on his face, she turned. Unfortunately, she faced the mirror so she didn’t miss the slow fury infusing his face.

“That’s always your answer isn’t it?” he taunted nastily. “Distance.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know how to make you scream.”

A shocked breath lodged in her throat, and she wrestled with her gaze trapped by his dark challenge.

The soft answer used as sarcasm instead of seduction heated up her insides and inflamed her fury. It was corroboration that he could be intimate in her bed and indifferent out of it.

As she eyed the various things on the dresser, choosing what she wanted to throw, he went on with the argument nailing in his point.

“You wouldn’t tell me about Tristan because you felt safe with this secret living so far away. When you got mad at the hospital you wanted me to leave, and now you are saying it again. You run away from problems or push them away from you.” Softly, “I know more about you than you know about yourself.”

“You think you’ve got me figured out after knowing me for a couple of weeks–”

“No, I know.” His voice was low with an underlying something that she could not identify. “I have you figured out–at least the only part I need to know–”

“Momma?” The tiny voice whipped her around, and protectively, she advanced on her little boy who was peering into the slit of the door. “Want to see what I can do?”

A pull of the doorknob swung the door in, and she grinned seeing his mischievous smile wondering what it was concerning this time. Bally was on his heels minus any pranks on her fur.

A piece of her wanted to glance at Jack, to see his proud smile, yet she was so hurt by his deceit and accusations that she could not.

“Ready?” Standing in the doorway, Tristan left them hanging in suspense as he drug out the moment.

“I’m ready!” She accompanied the enthused exclamation with an equally excited smile.

“I know I’m ready!” Jack’s deeper voice agreed.

Dramatically, Tristan held his arms slightly up, and his crutches raised like wings. Watching the floor, he took one step, then another, then another! Swaying some, he caught himself on his crutches, then turned his eyes to hers seeking her reaction.

They reached him at the same time, their knees doing a synonymous guitar solo type slide the last couple of feet across the floor. Enfolding the tiny body in a bear hug, she dabbed her damp eyes on one the soft tee shirt of his tiny shoulders. Jack’s fingers brushed hers as he participated in the hug the best he could, and realizing she was being selfish, she passed Tristan his way. Her eyes emotionally filled again while watching them wrapped together.

Despite every fear she had about Jack entering their lives, she knew that it was best that Tristan grow up with his father in his life. But dammit, she was his mother; he needed her too, and Jack needed to understand that full custody was not in anyone’s best interest, especially Tristan’s.

Jack went with Tristan to the kitchen for the chocolate milk and Teddy Grahams the tot requested, and she fell face down on the bed, by sheer will power holding in her tears. Tears of happiness. Tears of fear. Tears of sadness and betrayal.

From the den, the television noisily came to life with one of Tristan’s shows and then Jack was back with her. The mattress dipped with his weight, and she stiffened but remained with her face comfortingly in the comforter. It could be her imagination, but it smelled like Jack.

“I don’t fly out until Friday. And since my schedule is going to be busy for a couple of weeks after that, I don’t want to change plans and miss out on time with Tristan just because we had a fight.”

A fight? The two words were hysterical. Her whole life was culminating into one giant train wreck and he called it a fight?

“We didn’t have a fight.” Rolling over, she glared into his face. “A fight is something eventually over and done with after a few apologies.”

And, makeup sex!
Her mind tormented with sensations barely passed.

Jack quietly studied her face, and she could not find even a trace of guilt in his features. Oddly, mirrored in his expression seemed to be every emotion she was feeling–the biggest of those being betrayal.

Choosing not to respond to her words, he looked away. “All I’m saying is I can spend my time with Tristan here, or take him to the hotel every day. So figure it out and let me know. Also, before I fly home, we are telling him.”

When he stood, she propped on her arms incredulously inquiring, “You would really do that?” Deepening her voice she ridiculed, “I’m your father, and by the way, you’re living with me from now on!”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Offended by her words, he exited the room, heading down the hall to the den, and she grudgingly watched that departure, the way his jeans molded to his backside, and the stretch of his tee shirt on his shoulders, with as much interest as she ever had.

Retreating to her cry zone, a hot shower, she continually adjusted the water until the hot water tank bled empty and only then did she step out.

Jack was teaching Tristan a drum beat when, with pruned fingers, she twisted the door open and passed the two of them in her trek to the kitchen. Foraging the pantry to figure a meal from the ingredients on hand, she gave herself over to some sort of numbness.

Confused and conflicted, she listened to his interactions with Tristan. A piece of her felt that she should demand that he leave, and a part of her felt that she should not deny the two of them any time together.

Jack stayed for jambalaya, and Tristan did not seem to notice they were not speaking. After reading him a book for bed, before his bath rather than after, Jack hugged the little boy and promised to him to return the following day.

From the kitchen, where she had been a cleaning maniac, she again indulged her favorite pastime, running her eyes down his backside, and her heart physically hurt when, without a word, he let himself out.

The second Tristan heard her story and was in bed, she texted Olivia asking her friend to call her, adding a code they had created between them. 9-1-1 combined with ‘call me’ was a real emergency and had been used twice, once when she was in labor and once when Tristan busted his chin open on the patio. 9-1-0 was an emotional emergency, used moments after Kel cheated on her, and now. Secure in the knowledge that her friend would call on her first work break, she curled miserably into a ball in the bed.

The phone was still in her hand from Olivia’s late night consolation when the doorbell peeled the next morning. In a panic, she jumped from the bed. Again, she had overslept on one of Tristan’s physical therapy days. Yanking a brush through her hair, she peered down at yesterday’s jeggings and wrinkled shirt still on her body, and hurriedly fit a fresh shirt on.

Jack, not the young professional woman, stood just beyond the peephole. Dressed in his usual attire, his appearance, unlike her, was fresh. His hair, hanging long and loose, was still damp. The only sign of stress was slight shadows tinting the area beneath his eyes.

“You’re early,” she mumbled, stepping back so he could come inside.

“Didn’t know I had an appointment.”

“Speaking of, Tristan’s PT will be here in a half hour.” From down the hall, she heard Tristan’s t.v. meaning that he was awake but not yet out of his room. “If I get a shower and dress, can you make sure he gets dressed? And there are some blueberry muffins on the–”

“Sure, no problem.” His eyes ran sweetly over her, and although he moved on down the hall, for a moment the atmosphere felt intimate.

The shower restored her state of mind as well as energy level, and soon she was trying not to laugh when the young woman went all fan girl upon seeing Jack.

“Oh!” With a twirl of the girl’s hair she blurted, “Did anyone ever tell you– you look like Jack Storm?”

“His name is Jack,” Tristan helpfully imparted.

“Wait, you ARE Jack Storm? Oh my Go–” With incredible control, she halted the curse replacing it with a simple breathless “Oh!” The coos continued as Jack, horrified, continuously shook his head with cautionary glances at Tristan. But, his arms colorfully inked with music bars, notes, a guitar and more, captured in photos on the internet and in magazines, were a dead giveaway.

Even more amusing was Tristan’s take on this. His wide eyes took in the scene, but he said nothing as his father signed the hem of the young woman’s scrub top, and Marissa took a picture of Jack standing behind the girl, his hands resting companionably on her shoulders...

During the therapy session, the young woman’s eyes were more on Jack than Tristan, and this was a shame because Tristan took a half a dozen unaided steps. Marissa’s heart paced with happiness, and Jack moved against her lacing his fingers with hers. Despite the animosity and anger fogging her heart, she leaned against him, mutual with this momentous moment.

“I did it! I’m walking like you!” Tristan happily sang to them, but he was exhausted and leaning heavily on his crutches once more.

Jack saw the PT to the door buying her silence with the promise of an autographed print of the picture taken on Marissa’s phone. She listened as he took her name and number for passes to the next show of her choice. All in all, it was brilliant to subtly withhold the picture until he was safely out of town. He later explained that when his publicist contacted the girl, the VIP package would come with the stipulation of her silence. Marissa wondered how many ruses he had, and how many times he had to use them.

Tristan was having his own thoughts because he asked, “Why did you write on Miss Dana’s shirt?”

NOT KNOWING HOW
to field that one, Jack looked to Marissa. Tristan’s rapt gaze did not waver, so Marissa gave it a go. “Well, she knows your–” Quickly, she clamped her mouth closed before resuming, “Jack. She knows Jack. I guess she thought it would be funny. But don’t you write on anybody’s shirt!” With a wink and a warning, she looked to Jack to see if he noticed the slip she had almost made. ‘...she knows your father…’

Jack swooped in to the rescue changing the subject before the tiny boy could ask any more questions. “I was thinking you and I would go out today and look at guitars. Did you still want to learn to play?”

Tristan bobbed his head eagerly rattling off enthusiastic words, and Marissa skeptically entered the conversation. “A guitar? Isn’t he young yet?”

“What?” Jack teased, and she grew warm and fuzzy when those dark eyes held hers with something other than anger. “Old enough for drums and the karaoke machine but not guitar?”

It did sound silly, and she curved a relenting smile as she wondered, “How old were you when you got your first guitar?”

Tristan babbled continuously about what he wanted to wear to the ‘song store,’ and they quietly spoke between themselves as they traipsed behind him to his room.

Jack shrugged. “No idea. I was too young to have a memory of it. It was probably in my crib.” A short laugh and the dimple punctuated this remark. “My dad is a musician too. So, I guess that’s why.” Lingering in the doorway to the race car themed room, he turned in concern. “Do you think it is pushing him? I mean, I just wanted to show him some easy songs. Not force him into anything.”

A little surprised that they were having a normal conversation when her vow just yesterday was silence for the rest of his stay, she curiously inquired, “Did you feel pushed?”

“No. As far back as I do remember, I loved it.”

“There you go then. Get him a guitar.” Looking to Tristan, she found him dressed in his red guitar shirt. She was sure she had not done a load of laundry since grabbing the item in a dirty clothing sweep just yesterday.

While they went, she stayed at the house, unable to commit to a day with Jack– not that he had invited her. There was still an underlying tension between them despite the relaxed conversation. She cleaned the house and called work, making arrangements to take two weeks personal leave. Vacation time would end at the end of this week, and although Tristan was getting around better than ever, she did not want to miss seeing the progress he was making. The extra days would not be paid leave, but she had a feeling her money problems were over when it concerned Tristan.

Olivia came by, and abandoning the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the den, Marissa shared Tristan’s therapy milestone. In Olivia’s excitement, she asked a dozen questions while unpacking two chef salads from a takeout bag. An order of chicken strips and fries, Tristan’s favorite, was set aside. Tristan being away from the house, without either of them, was an oddity, and Olivia had not known he would be absent from the meal.

“So, he just showed up this morning, like nothing happened?” Squeezing a packet of ranch dressing, Olivia drizzled her salad as she spoke of Jack.

Picking up one of the packets, Marissa did the same. “No. It’s definitely like something happened. He barely looks at me, and when something does get us talking it’s awkward at first.”

“Here’s what I think. And I spent a long time thinking on it after you called last night.” Waving her plastic fork around, Olivia stared into space, and Marissa knew that she was such a good friend that she had been kept awake by this most recent turn of events. “I think there is a good possibility that you took everything he said wrong.”

Chewing a cherry tomato, Marissa looked longingly at the chicken strips. “How could any of that,” roughly she referred to the custody dispute, “be taken any other way?”

“From what you told me, it is open to interpretation.”

The smell of Tristan’s meal was getting to Olivia too. Or, maybe the carbohydrate lust in Marissa’s eyes was contagious. Her friend’s eyes also continually strayed to the chicken meal.

Hearing Olivia’s view of the fight with Jack shed some hope in her heart, and as she tried to remember the exact conversation, her eyes landed for the dozenth time on the chicken. “Jack and Tristan will eat somewhere, I know it. Jack can’t go two hours without eating.”

“Jack, Jack, Jack...
,” Olivia teased.

“Shut up if you want some of these!” Losing the carb battle, Marissa broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into her salad and scooped a few fries into her mouth.

“So, what you need to do is write down what he said and read it to yourself.” Olivia tossed a strip onto the lettuce in her box and, with perfect etiquette, cut it into cubes using her plastic knife and fork.

Considering Olivia’s words, Marissa was always amazed that her friend could be so wise with advice these days when for years she had spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, Marissa pulled a pen from the plastic jar that Tristan had used stickers and glitter glue to make into a pencil holder. Letting her mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, she began to jot the conversation as recalled on the back of a junk mail envelope.

Just as she began to examine the words, Bally’s deafening barking spree signaled Jack and Tristan’s return. Guiltily, Marissa shoved the envelope beneath her purse on the bar, hid the empty chicken and fries container inside the microwave, and hastily rolled up the cord to the vacuum that was a tripping hazard to Tristan.

Tristan was glowing with happy excitement, and careful of his crutches, Marissa wrapped him in a hug of greeting. “Did you eat sweetheart?”

“Jack had two hamburgers, and I had chicken,” he announced. “Then we had ice cream, and I told him you didn’t eat ice cream, but he brought you some anyway.”

“I bet she eats ice cream today,” Olivia murmured beneath her breath. Marissa jerked around finding her friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.

“Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, Marissa ignored the sundae in question and shoo’d Bally outside. The dog knew enough not to knock Tristan down in welcome but was jumping all around Jack who was carrying in his other hand a kid sized red Fender. A shopping bag hung on the crook of his elbow.

“Why today, Mom?”

It was the first time her little boy had ever called her anything but Momma, and dismayed, she searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, she narrowed her eyes again at Olivia.

“Because ice cream is good. But, you are right. I don’t want any right now.” When Olivia quietly sniggered again, Marissa shot her a pointed look and crossed the room bending slightly to snatch the plastic container. “I will put it in the freezer for later.” Olivia made another sound and Marissa ignored it this time.

Jack paused to give Marissa an entirely different pointed look, one that seemed hot and hungry yet dispassionate at the same time– as if she were some random girl who caught his fancy for a few seconds. When Marissa came out of this strange reverie, Jack and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and she felt silly. Maybe a hint to a polite introduction was all that had been behind his look.

Olivia picked up her handbag in preparation to leave. Not wanting to be alone with Jack, Marissa strongly hinted for her to stay, and hearing this, Tristan added his pleas.

“Please stay, Aunt Liv. We got an Xbox and a race car game!”

Pivoting around, Marissa saw that he was hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and her accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An Xbox?”

“Mom, wait till you see! It’s so dope!”

Again, if her look could have slashed, a certain metal god would be bleeding. Jack seemed likewise startled at new slang from the four-year old. Olivia wisely backed away from the altercation, and, once out of proximity, turned on her heels to run out the door.

“You can play first, Mom,” Tristan offered while avidly watching Jack load the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in her face put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.

Pulling in a calming breath, she exclaimed with enough exhilaration to match Tristan’s mood as she viewed his new guitar. Reaching for it, she lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. Her father had an acoustic, and throughout her childhood, had taught her and her siblings various chords and keys.

In stunned surprise, Jack eyed her ability to create a short riff. Laying the instrument aside and smiling at Tristan’s offer, she shook her head. “You and Jack play. I might later.”

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

Once, she 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, she dozed.

Dully,
over supper, she watched father and son. She continued to produce stiff smiles in response to Jack’s stiff smiles as they both kept up a semblance of appearance for Tristan. The shopping trip today was her newest internal objection. Never had she been able to wow her son with much more than the Hot Wheels miniature cars and latest track craze for them. Jack doing so much lately had her 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? He had such a good heart that 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, her brother, who resided in Florida, inboxed her on Facebook to relate that their mother was not happy with the way Marissa had “cast her aside.” While on the social network, she clicked over to Jack’s private page. They had friended while sitting in the hospital room among empty blizzard cups.

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

Curiously, she 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. This picture was in an album that appeared to be family, and she scrutinized each person that Tristan would soon know as well as Aunt Liv, or her parents, or even her distant siblings.

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

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

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

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