Jack Who? (Silver Strings G Series) (15 page)

CHICKEN GUMBO. THIS
was his new favorite food. Jack’s first taste of the dish had been on a night that was as rotten in his memories as it was epic.

The night Marissa went on a date after all he could think about, on the preceding flight over then the drive over, was kissing her crazy. The same night he had contentedly played karaoke, chutes and ladders, and read books to his son for almost six straight hours.

“Jack?” The bitch in his memories and love of his present reality drew him out of the reverie.

Looking up from his place on the couch, Jack saw that she held two hangers. Unconsciously, his mind fit first the loose dress, as he remembered it from the last wear,
to her form. In the sunlight, during an ice cream run, he had watched it become see through enough to show a shadow of her legs as she walked. The next choice was a pair of pants he had yet to see her wear– capris if he remembered the term right– and a matching black top. Black was so hot on her.

“Which one?” she urgently prompted with a darting look to the clock over the den television.

Taking in the wet uncombed hair already beginning to wave around her anxious face, and the lightly tanned limbs not covered by the fluff of a towel that wrapped the really good parts of her body, he felt a grin twitch.

That’s not all that twitched.

His feet fell from the sofa table to the floor, the rest of him intent on a bathroom bang. Five minutes. Surely, she would be agreeable. Maybe he could make a deal. His mind ran through the possible sensuous bribes...and doing so was doing things...

“So, which one?” Mariss pressed. The outfits were still under her consideration. When Jack didn’t directly reply, her look swung away from the hangers toward him, until something detoured her eyes, and they narrowed. “Are you eating the gumbo already?”

Her annoyance was fleeting, because in that same second, her gaze slid to his face where it froze, perfectly reading his naughty thoughts. The return yearn was clear in the dilation darkening her eyes. Her lips looked slightly swollen from much kissing...and stuff, in the last couple of days, and they parted open as if already anticipating the things he desired, she desired.

This was all happening in the span of several seconds, but unfortunately, in that same duration, the two other occupants of the house crashed the party. Just in the last day or so, Tristan was down to one crutch and traveled at a faster rate of walking. Bally padded a length ahead, and the clip of her paws hit the den just before their son did.

“I can’t find my shirt!”

Reluctantly, Jack pulled his focus from Mariss but his heart immediately lifted upon seeing his son’s face. “What’s up buddy?”

“I can’t find my shirt.” Annoyance steeped the little guy’s words. Jack was quickly learning that Tristan didn’t like repeating or explaining his dialogue, and he controlled a smile. His mother would freak when she discovered this trait. In that way, Tristan took after his sister, Meg.

“Which shirt?” Jack prompted.

“The red guitar. It was on my dresser, and now it’s not.”

“Tristan, sweetheart, I washed it,” Mariss interjected.

“Can you get it for me?”

“It hasn’t been dried yet,” Mariss again. Wariness tinged her words.

“Why did you do that? I wanted to wear it,” Tristan whined, and the sound was extremely uncharacteristic of what Jack knew of his son’s personality so far. Marissa, however, did not seem surprised, and this odd mood swing possibly explained her cautionary tone. Jack wondered if their son had ever thrown down in a full-blown tantrum like Meg’s kids.

“Sweetheart,” Mariss gently addressed him. “You can’t keep taking it from the dirty laundry. It has to be washed sometimes.”

“Please get it Momma.” A shimmer of tears now accompanied the whimper, but Marissa’s visual attention was back on the hangers in her hand.

“Tristan, it’s wet–” Her tone was a shade different, slipping into a no-nonsense zone.

Straightening from the couch, Jack hastily intercepted, swinging their son into his arms before he could reply with another whine. Tristan was definitely looking disappointed enough to cry. “Let’s go check out the situation.”

“Jack, it’s wet in the washer...”

Curving a reassuring smile, he sent Marissa a significant ‘I got this’ lift of his eyebrows, and headed into the laundry room. Setting Tristan on top of the washer, Jack pulled it open and began digging around in the mass of wet clothing. Spotting the bright red shirt, he handed it off to the little boy. Next, he emptied the dryer of all except one of the shirts in the dry load, tossed the red shirt in, and set the timer.

“Okay, let’s go pick something else out to wear while it dries.”

Stopping to scoop his crutch from the floor, Jack carried Tristan into his room and began the unnerving task of finding something he would actually wear for this dinner tonight.

Maybe in the little boy’s mind, somehow, he knew how momentous the night was. As well as the grandparents he knew and loved, he would also be meeting Jack’s parents– grandparents he had never known existed until the previous day.

Over the last day and a half, the plans had come about.

Marissa and Tristan were flying with him back to LA for a few weeks, then on tour with him, and finally they would all come back, pack the necessities from the house, and close it up enough to leave it for several months.

Since Marissa’s parents were driving her crazy to meet him, and his parents were having a conniption to meet her and Tristan, they had decided to do both at once.

Not only did one family get
-together solve the time factor, but also Jack was in a better comfort zone with his parents around, and the same applied to Marissa when it came to meeting their respective future in-laws.

His mother wanted to fly everyone to Dallas, to their family home. Jack knew her ulterior motive was that his sister, Meg, might join if everyone gathered in Dallas. However, Marissa explained that her parents would be uncomfortable with that arraignment and proposed that everyone come here.

HERE. Here, to this house.

Then, on top of that, Marissa nixed the plans to eat out, deciding to do the cooking herself. Once he thought about it, Jack was sure this plan was for Tristan’s sake.

The doorbell rang as soon as Tristan poked his head through the compromise car tee shirt. Jack promised to let him change into the guitar shirt as soon as it dried.

“Jack!” Marissa’s voice came from her bedroom and drifted down the hallway. “Can you? Please?”

With an affirmative reply, he stopped before the front entrance. Through the peephole, he beheld the couple who had been at the hospital that first fateful morning. Stealthy jumping away from the door, he sprinted to her bedroom and was brought up short by her appearance.

Hot.

She had chosen the dress. Somehow, in the quarter of an hour since he last saw her, she had applied light makeup, and her hair had dried to a just damp state.

Shit, he loved her hair. However, there was no time to dwell on her different degrees of hotness.

“It’s your parents,” he informed her.

“Did you let them in?” Obviously, she knew he hadn’t.

“It’s your parents. You let them in–”

The bell peeled again, and when Marissa went on tiptoes, her palms reaching to rest on his shoulder, his body automatically bent to her. The fortifying
 kiss was quick and sweet (he did not straighten until she was done with him). Then, side-stepping around him, she went to answer the door.

Greetings carried down the hall, getting closer. Suddenly, Jack realized that he was standing in their daughter’s bedroom. As if he belonged. As if he had been in her bed every night. As if every night he had fucked her into a coma–

New thoughts...

Hurrying to her bathroom, he closed the door. A twist of the faucet sent the hiss of water swirling about the sink, and he cupped its coolness to his face, then picked up her brush redoing the hairband that held his hair back.

They seemed to be in the kitchen, Tristan too, and he exited her bedroom just as the doorbell sounded again. Putting as much distance as possible between her room and himself, he checked through the peephole again and was reassured to see his pop with an arm lightly resting on his mom’s shoulder.

Marissa sprinted into the hall toward the door, but seeing he was already there, she smiled then beat it back to the main room. When it came down to it, she was as big a wimp as he was about this night.

“Mom!” Automatically, his arms closed around the woman who bore him, catching her when she threw herself against him. His pop, used to this, simply reached around his wife to clasp Jack’s arms in each of his hands.

“Jacks,” his pop joked, “Takes a long lost grandchild to get an audition with you these days?”

Curving a grin, Jack replied, “Been busy. But things should slow down in a few months.”

“Right...” Sardonically, his pop drew the word out clearly not convinced, as he also firsthand knew the hectic pace of the music profession.

“So Jacks.” His mom pulled slowly away but kept contact, patting at his jacket with a smile. No doubt, she knew why he was wearing a hoodie when it was eighty degrees outside. Although his mother had been horrified at the first tattoo, by the time his sleeves were complete, she seemed fine with it. “Let’s meet the eldest grandchild. I wish I could have seen Meg’s face when she found she wasn’t first at something.” His sister had begun popping kids out a few years ago, making her oldest a year younger than Tristan.

As a parade, they eased down the hall, and Marissa intercepted just as they spilled into the den instinctively seeking reassurance on his arm with a touch of her fingers. However, during the introductions when she noticed his mother’s hand resting on his other arm, she let her own fall away.

Marissa put out her hand. To Jack’s surprise, his mother didn’t pull her into a friendly hug and her voice was carefully cool. His pop reached around for the handshake and his voice sounded several degrees warmer.

When Jack noticed Tristan hanging back behind Marissa, he knelt and scooped him up while trying to ignore the intense examination of the future in-laws he had yet to meet. Marissa’s parents were politely waiting just beyond this little perimeter. In his corner vision, he could see that they were watching him with as much interest as that day at the hospital.

“And this guy is Tristan!” Proudly, Jack introduced his son.

His parents went nuts over Tristan. His mom put her hands out, but Tristan quickly retreated closer to Jack. Jack’s heart experienced a physical squeeze when the tiny arms circled and squeezed his neck.

Meeting Marissa’s parents was as daunting as meeting parents on prom night, and after shaking her dad’s hand, he then suffered the man’s glowers. Mrs. Duplei was distant in a different way. Marissa’s father’s hostility felt protective while her mother’s seemed demeaning.

Twenty minutes later, Jack’s mother won Tristan over. The little guy lingered close to where his new grandmother sat on the sofa. They spoke softly among themselves as he showed off his favorite Hot Wheels and exclaimed happily over the new ones she brought as a gift.

His pop settled back watching his grandchild with an enigmatic look, which Jack totally understood. Tristan was the first grandson. If his pop was seeing the same resemblance that Jack had seen that first day, then it was an amazing feeling.

Their fathers quickly hit it off, and since his mom remained enthralled with Tristan, that left him and Marissa to deal with her mom. The woman was a character to say the least.

Maybe she had no idea who he was publicly. Maybe she only cared who he was privately. He found himself treated like a gangster. This, without the woman knowing of his ink, and he wore no jewelry.

“What is it that you do in California, Jack?” The inquiry came as Mrs. Duplei lit another one of the cigarettes she chain-smoked. Marissa had extracted ashtrays from a drawer in the kitchen prior to their arrival.

Jack’s look swung to Marissa seeing her apologetic expression, and he realized that she had not yet related his ‘career.’ Unsure why this was, he hesitated, and in his peripheral vision saw that his parents were just as dumbfounded. His mother’s face was soft with sympathy as she beheld the interrogation, and his dad sported an amused expression after getting over the first shock.

“I, uh, Music. Music production–”

An exaggerated gasp pushed through Marissa’s lips and she jumped up exclaiming, “I need to check on supper. Make sure it’s not burning. Mom can you come make sure I spiced it right?”

“Marissa. You cannot add flavoring last minute and expect flavor. It needs to simmer–” her mother reproved and leaped up ready to save the meal. “Did you even start with a roux?”

Jack wanted to jump in, admit having already stolen a serving, and assure that the meal was epic, but he restrained. Another time. Remembering how the woman had disparaged Marissa on the phone that day at the hospital and just from the slight snarky snips tonight, he knew he would never be able to silently stand by while she dissed her daughter.

Since the dividing bar constituting the kitchen table had only four stools, they scattered into groups as they ate.