Weathering Jack Storm (Silver Strings G Series) (4 page)

Instead of picking Tristan up, Jack stopped and turned a mysterious look on them as he reached a hand to the wainscoting. With a push, the panel popped open, revealing...

A narrow elevator.

Tristan’s eyes were wide as they stepped in, and Jack pulled the wainscoting to with the handle on the inside. The square footage was obviously meant for two people at the most, and as her length was crammed against Jack’s, her heart began to pound in that way it did for him, and only him. Tristan pressed the button, and a cage type door swished closed and then they were safely carried to the next floor. This time, they stepped out of what had the appearance of a closet.

A gate, similar to Rusty’s, blocked the stairway descent, and she knew that at some point she would ask Jack if this one had been set up to safeguard Tristan, or if it had been there all along for Rusty.

“This house rocks!” Tristan paused to close the door concealing the elevator, and as they smiled over his head, she caught more than the average sparkle in Jack’s eyes. There was something more to come besides the elevator, and her suspicions were confirmed when they stopped before a door with Tristan’s name spelled out vertically in colored letters.

Her eyes followed Jack’s to their son’s face as he twisted open the door, and the gasp was all she needed to hear in combination with the rounded eyes to know the room was spectacular.

How had Jack had it done so fast? The car bed that Tristan had wanted for several months was the focal point, but instead of being low to the floor, it had the illusion of being jacked up on a mechanic’s lift. Beneath the bed was a couple of beanbag chairs. The dressers were red mock tool storage chests. The television was almost as large as the one downstairs in the den.

The car theme was the focal point of the room without being dominating, and while Tristan hurried to his bed, she frowned at it, especially when he propped his crutch and began up the ladder.

Protectively, she closed the space, and Jack followed. Whether optimistically or defensively, he explained, “As quick as he is getting along, I didn’t expect it to be a problem. Check this out.” Retrieving a piece of molded plastic from where it leaned against the wall, he attached it to the bed, effectively making a slide.

“Mom! This bed is so—This bed rocks!”

Agreeing, she smiled, and this time there was no jealousy that Jack had far surpassed the car room that had taken a good chunk of her paycheck back home.

Jack passed him a remote control, and once Tristan began surfing the channels asked, “I’m going to show your mom—your momma her room. Cool?”

Tristan barely nodded, and she couldn’t help but grin when she saw he was already setting the DVR to record his favorite shows.

“Tristan. Tristan! Look at me.” Moving to stand between him and the t.v., she had to verbally command his attention since from his height he could look over her head. “Do not get down from that bed until we come back. Understand?”

Only when her son nodded did she follow Jack to the hall, then a few paces down the hall to the room directly beside their son’s.

“Wait! There is something you should know.” Jack’s words halted her hand on the doorknob. “There is no car bed, no bean bags, no–” With an amused roll of her eyes, she cut him off and twisted the door open.

It was a normal neat guest room, and after peering into the dresser mirror, swiping at the shadows beneath her eyes, she sank to the plush spread of the bed.

“Tired?” Jack sat beside her, and resting a hand on the base of her neck, gently massaged. When she nodded, he asked, “Do you think he likes his room?”

It seemed a redundant question, given Tristan’s ecstatic ramblings for the last quarter of an hour, and a trickle of irritation bubbled up before she pushed it down. Jack was not trying to outdo what she could do. He was simply trying to connect with a son he loved, already, she was beginning to believe, as much as she did.

“He loves his room,” she assured, resting a hand on his threadbare jeans.

“Are you worried about the bed? I thought the slide was a perfect solution to getting down until he is on his feet. And he seemed to climb it okay.”

“No. I’m not worried. It’s good exercise.”

Through the curtain of his hair, his face didn’t seem assured, and he asked, “Why did you tell him he couldn’t get down? Until you came back?”

Her fingertips had been brushing at the threadbare denim on his knees, and she pulled them back, wearily pushing the hair back from her face as she angled her face to better see his expression.

“The swimming pool,” she admitted. The huge sliding glass doors had a long rod at what looked to be around six feet from the floor, some type of lock, but she still worried. “I saw the lock. Tristan minds well. But I’ve never had to test all of that around a pool. He loves to swim–well he can’t actually swim yet, and that’s the problem.”

Understanding gleamed in his dark eyes. “There is that lock you saw, high up. He couldn’t even reach it with a chair. Also, there is a water alarm. Anything falls in the water, it detonates an ear-splitting alarm.” Jack grinned. “Trust me, Dax is always bitching. Anytime a snake or large frog takes a dip, well you will see soon enough. We have to keep the setting at low poundage because Rusty barely makes a splash.”

Nodding, she felt slightly better and listened as he went on to explain that his top priority would be teaching Tristan to swim. That would ease both of their minds even more.

“Is Tristan going to need a bath tonight?”

The thought of the travel day’s grime remaining as he slept was unpleasant, but she shook her head in exhaustion. “I don’t feel like it.”

“I’ll get it done.” A brush of a kiss, and he disappeared into what she learned with the sound of bathwater was a connecting bathroom.

Lying back, she closed her eyes and dozed to the sound of their voices. When the gurgle of water draining was the background to a discussion over snacks, she padded into the room. Tristan was wearing pajamas that she did not recognize, and she was willing to bet their bags were still in the car, and that the dressers in his room contained more than just a pair of PJ’s.

Jack piggybacked Tristan down the stairs this time, and when he pulled up short, she had to put out a hand to keep from running into them.

“Damn dog,” he muttered, then immediately apologized for the language.

Taking in the den, she knew she would not have been able to contain a curse word. Rusty had quietly been shredding a throw pillow from the couch while they had been upstairs.

“Why did Rusty do that? Does Rusty do that a lot? How will you fix it? Bally never does that.” The exclamations poured from Tristan.

Jack put Rusty out the small kitchen door, and when the canine immediately return entered through a doggy door, he ignored it as he poured a bowl of cereal for Tristan. It was odd just to follow him around as he tended to their son. While Tristan scooped the milk and flakes into his mouth, and Jack cleaned up pillow stuffing, she wandered the bottom floor of the generous sized home.

Every door in the house so far that she had seen was closed, and with a look at Jack folding the last of the stuffing taco style into the pillow to transport to the trash, she understood why.

“Go ahead,” The invitation came from over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen. Uncertainly, she stared at the door she stood in front of before twisting the handle. Lighting from the monitors of a couple of computer screens provided the only illumination, but it was enough to register the outline of musical equipment.

Flipping on the light switch confirmed the setup: a massive drum set, guitars lining the wall as well as the floor, soundboards, a glassed in corner, wires snaked everywhere, microphones jutting from stands.

This was it. The creative space where music manifested into money. Enough money to live a life that most only dreamed about.

“What do you think?” Jack’s voice rumbled from the doorway, and reflexively, she pulled her fingers from one of the guitars on the wall.

“About your toy room?” she teased, dragging her gaze from the impressive display of gear to his excited face. His answering grin didn’t lessen the grown boys and their toys analogy. Complete with the dimples, it was boyish enough that she restrained the urge to ruffle his hair as he always did Tristan’s. The next urge was harder to restrain, but she turned away before throwing herself on him for a kiss.

With Jack walking among the equipment, the room seemed to morph from a ‘toy room’ to a place of power, and Jack was the master, a creator of the genius.

Her voice even dropped a reverent notch. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

Enjoying her appreciation of his craft, he moved to the wall. Taking a guitar down, he explained, “This one is a vintage Strat. One of the first with a tremolo on board.” Automatically, his fingers plucked and strummed a few samples chords before he laid it in her hands. “And this is a digital Strat. Everything electronic, controlled by this pad right here,” Indicating the smooth area beneath the strings, he explained how it had nine different pressure points, each eliciting a different sound.

Bending, he plugged into an amp and twisted it on. The guitar came to life, and he did a quick demonstration of whammies with no whammy bar.

“Cool!” Her enthusiasm came, not from what she was seeing, but from his enjoyment at showing her. From the den across the hall, Tristan was loudly laughing at Rusty, and even though the dog was Jack’s, she was wary of the kids and strange dogs combination. “I should just make sure they are not tearing up another pillow...”

Jack nodded, and as she reluctantly exited, he continued to play as if interacting with a long-lost friend after his long trip. The riffs had Tristan’s attention, and the little boy was already en route to the room with Rusty on his heels.

Jack curved a smile to Tristan and shot a wary glance to Rusty. By his look, she guessed that Rusty was not normally allowed in this hallowed sanctuary, with good reason if the pillow were any indication of what he could do with cords.

Jack had the guitar screaming as his hands moved like lightening up and down the neck, his pinky pressed at the touch pad, and his socked foot seesawed the pedal. Tristan stood only a foot away, enthralled, and she was the only one who saw Rusty circle a pile of cords. As she watched, wondering what the dog was up to, he sank to his haunches relieving himself of half of his body weight.

“Eeeewww!” Tristan screamed backing away with his fingers pinched on his nostrils.

Her own hand rose to her nose, and as Jack flung aside the guitar, the dog flashed out of the room.

“What the–!” Jack was gagging like the rest of them and clamped his mouth closed as they all spilled into the hallway. Following him as he took off, she saw him snatch up Rusty with a menacing grumble, put the canine out the kitchen door, and lean down to lock the doggy door. From various kitchen cabinets and drawers, he extracted gloves, a spray cleaner, paper towels, and a plastic bag.

Letting him go on that mission alone, she began the more pleasant task of clearing Tristan’s mess from the table. When Jack returned, holding the bag away from his person, Tristan worried, “Are you going to let Rusty back in? He didn’t mean to. One time I got sick and my stomach did that. He couldn’t help it...”

The empathetic boy’s words dwindled as Jack unlatched the doggie door, and Rusty exploded through it yet held his ears back understanding he had disappointed his master.

“It’s okay,” Jack assured Tristan, although a glower still hovered on his face from the unpleasant clean up. “He normally doesn’t do that unless he eats people food. He must have gotten into something Dax was eating.”

The name drop of Dax was a small hint to the assistant’s presence in the house. Obviously, his work with Jack was on the casual side if he could sit around the house and eat.

“Or me,” she admitted, and as Jack and Tristan both turned her way, she elaborated when her gaze verified the empty dog bowl, “I gave him my leftover pizza.”

“Ah, it all makes sense,” Jack joked and curved a dangerous smile. “Don’t do that again. Whoever feeds him has to clean it up. And now you owe me since that was your mess.”

“Hmm, well work out your terms and let me know.” The sultry smile she sent back broke when she felt Tristan’s stony observation. To distract him, she asked, “Are you ready to try out the car bed?”

Nodding, he asked, “Can we go up in the elevator?”

This time, Jack let Tristan do everything, from the push latch that swung open the wainscoting, to closing the door in the hallway once they reached the next story.

Proudly, Tristan led the way to his room. Overtaking him with a scary tiger type growl, Jack swung him in the air and she caught his crutch.

Privately, she was certain that Jack wanted him in bed as much as she did for the next phase of the night. As she tucked him in, Jack flipped on a nightlight, and a carousel of cars circled the ceiling.

“I wish Bally was here,” Tristan sounded despondent.

“Bally will be here before you know it,” she assured him.

“How will Bally get on my bed?”

“I’m sure Jack has that all figured out.”

“But how?”

When she looked at Jack, he seemed at a loss and then quickly recovered. “See the slide? We will replace it with a dog ladder.”