Jack Who?

CHAPTER 27

♪♫••════════CHAPTER 27════════••♬ ♭

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 he 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 bonged 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.

     His mom and dad both sat at the bar on either side of Tristan, and Jack stood torn between the other stool, and sitting with Marissa amidst her parents in the den. Jack’s dad, recognizing the dilemma, simply raised his brows and moved his arm to nonchalantly rest on the back of the remaining barstool. It was a silent statement of sorts, and following his unspoken advice, Jack crossed to sit by Marissa on the couch.

     A conversation about Tristan’s physical progress was ongoing, and without directly looking his way, Marissa’s free hand possessively fell to his knee.

     When the discussion dwindled, she twisted her chin and flashed a wicked smile. “How is the gumbo?”

     “I may need a second bowl to decide,” blithely he returned, and his heart pounded when she paused with her spoon in her mouth.

     Quickly finishing the bite, she asked, “A second bowl? Are you sure it won’t take a third?”

     Word games with her were one of his favorite past times. Possibly, the word game in the tour bus was when he first fell for her.

     Playing hostess, Marissa refilled glasses and dished up second helpings. Playing mother, she tended to Tristan. To make sure she didn’t play maid, Jack hastened to help with the cleanup, making sure to beam a smile at both of her parents as he collected their empty dishes. The smile earned him no brownie points with her mother, but her father was thawing.

     Setting them into the sink, he discovered his own mother was now on friendlier terms with Marissa.

     “Your file’ is to die for,” his mom gushed. His mother was not a gusher and he studied her face in astonishment. File’?

     “Thank you.”

     “Haven’t had any this good since I was a child.”

     At this, Jack remembered relatives he had only met once or twice in southern Louisiana. The part of his childhood not spent on the road, or in Dallas, was spent at their second home in Destin on the beach. This is where cousins came together and where occasionally surf and turf supplemented shrimp jambalaya if his grandfather’s family was around.

     “I just cannot believe you have Jacks eating Cajun food!”

     Marissa tipped one of those sweet but deadly smiles to him. “I don’t think he liked it. Only two bowls...,” meaningfully trailing off, she tossed him a damp paper towel. “Can you make sure Tristan is not in your dad’s lap with file’ face?”

     Whipping around, Jack saw that sure enough, Tristan was sitting on his dad’s knee as if he had been doing so since the day he was born.

     “Already did,” Jack promised, having cleaned his son’s face before letting him get away from the bar. Buoyant with the magic of the moment, he pulled her waist to his in passing,

     Marissa’s parents were the first to leave, and Jack’s stuck around another hour. Even though it was well past Tristan’s bedtime, the little boy showed no fatigue as he chattered with his new grandparents. Leading his new grandmother down the hall with the hand he was not using for balance on his crutch, Tristan was intent on showing off his car room.

     Marissa was conversing with Jack’s father, and Jack headed with his mother into Tristan’s room.

     “Jacks, this is just beyond amazing.” His mom was not speaking entirely of the room, and Jack nodded his agreement.

     Marissa and Tristan in his life changed his outlook. He felt needed. He welcomed the responsibility. He embraced the love and companionship.

     “Daddy likes my room,” Tristan informed his grandmother. “He can sleep in here when we get another bed. But now he sleeps on the couch.”

     His mother smiled at Tristan’s enthusiasm, but she turned questioning eyes to her son possibly afraid she had read the situation wrong. Jack sought to put her mind to rest that all was well without it being too embarrassing.

     “It’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.” Putting slight stress on the S word, he kept his back to his mother and moved about pulling Tristan’s PJ’s from his dresser.

     Every morning at dawn, he moved to the couch. He was going to have to step up the ‘spectacular’ marriage proposal. Mariss had already questioned the number of bedrooms in his LA house and informed him that they would be sleeping, again stress on sleeping, in separate rooms for Tristan’s sake until they married.

     “I wish you could stay with us a night before heading to LA,” his mother mused as she straightened from the shelf of books Tristan was showing off.

     The next afternoon, they would all be flying to Dallas, but after his parents debarked, he, Mariss, and Tristan were going on to Van Nuys airport and then his house.

     “Me too. But soon. I promise,” Jack assured his mother as he helped Tristan dress for bed.

     “You better mean that. I let you slide when it is yourself, but you can’t hoard my grandchild. Ask Meg.”

     “I won’t hoard your grandson, Mom.” With this, he rolled his eyes, but a smile slipped out.

     It was no secret that his mother had separation anxiety when it came to her children. It was surprising that she dealt as well as she did with them both living in California. However, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in LA eased her mind about him and Meg living there. This also gave her many excuses to visit and spy on him and his sibling, which he did not mind at all–not like he had when he was twenty and catching hell from both of his parents about his friends, his girlfriends, everything.

     “What’s a whore?” Tristan’s face puckered, and Jack’s mother gasped.

     Jack stared flabbergasted as well. Seriously, did his son have some link into his mind while he was briefly thinking of the women in his past? Then, he understood that his son must have said ‘hoard.’ Either that, or Tristan had heard the ‘W’ word before, and asked because he thought he was hearing it again now.

     Carefully, Jack pronounced the correct word, making sure the ‘D’ was heard and defined hoard the best he could for a four-year old. His mother was enjoying every minute of this, and the second the explanation finished, she headed to the den, presumably to relate her first cutesy grandson story to anyone who would listen.

     Wonderful. Another word for Marissa to give him hell about.

     “Give us a call tomorrow. We will try to fly out by early afternoon,” his pop planned as they stood at the front door. His mother swung Tristan up in a hug and squeezed Marissa’s shoulder in parting.

     In every trip involving planes, the plan was always, if possible, to get where they were going before dark. His dad had survived a plane crash and hated flying, especially at night. Since they would be gaining a couple of daylight hours flying east to west, the time worked.

     The door closed behind them. Jack leaned against it for a moment watching as Marissa bent, picking up stray napkins and glasses. Each bend of her body, whether back view or front, caused the fabric of her dress to stretch sweetly across her curves.

     “Mom? Can I have another piece of pie?” Tristan asked. Jack saw that their son was hopefully hanging over the last two slices of the cheesecake.

     To Jack’s surprise, Marissa consented for whatever reason. But, she had been doing the parent thing way longer than him so she knew what she was doing. He hoped she did. Tonight, he was ready for Tristan to be asleep, not sugar rushing.

     Marissa finished up the dishes, and Jack finished off a piece of pie next to Tristan. As he ate, he eyed her every move and chattered with the two who, in a very short time, had become his favorite people in the world.

     After carrying Tristan to bed, Jack tucked him in with a very quick story and a promise of three stories the next night. Then he went back for Marissa.

     The lights were off. Only the night-light glowed in the kitchen and a small lamp in the den. Trekking the hall, he imagined the things they would do, and with a twist of his fingers to the button fly, made his jeans a little less tight.

     The bedroom was empty also, and the drone of running water propelled him forward, past the last-minute packing that littered every surface area, to the bathroom.

     She lay, stretched full length, in the tub although it was not yet full with her head resting on the tile, her eyes closed, and an arm on either side.

     “You going to just stand there or come in?” Her question was soft, sweet, seductive. It was the only invitation he needed.

     In seconds, he was stepping in and situating behind her so that she rested against him. Uncontrolled, his hands began to wander, and when he claimed every inch of skin reachable from this position, he went back for his favorites.

     “Jacks?”

     “Hmm?”

     “Aha!”

     In her excitement, she shifted, and his answer was a partial groan as he enjoyed her backside against his lap.

     “What?”

     “Your parents call you Jacks. Why is that?”

     “No idea.” Squeezing, he enjoyed the responses of her body as he played. The weight in his hand, the tickle in his palm, the quickening of her heart and breath.

     “Well what is your name?” Putting her hands over his, she closed her grip, as if she could stop his moves. As if she wanted to talk.

     “Jackson.” Answering, he relaxed his hold letting her get by with it for now.

     “Last name?”

     Her head turned slightly as she made the inquiry, dragging her hair across his shoulders and chest in a very distracting way.

     “Hmm?”

     “I heard your dad introduce himself and your mom to my parents. And, he said a different last name. It wasn’t Storm.”

     “Why are we talking names?” Letting his fingers slide beneath the water, he hoped to distract her, and he found his efforts rewarded when he heard the hitch of her breath and felt the arc of her chest beneath his other hand. “I have a question. Why do your parents wonder what I do for a living?”

     “I don’t know. It never came up. They didn’t ask before tonight, and it never seemed important.” Her tone was a touch defensive, and she stiffened slightly.

     For years, people had gravitated to him for who he was, even before he was who he was. Growing up, his dad was who he was, making him and Meg who they were to the outside world. It was hard to ever know who really gave a shit about him when it came to women and friends.

     He was enjoying that Mariss didn’t really have a clue of anything beyond this him, right here. Not that it would change anything with her. Jack knew her better than that. She had not been star struck at any time by Jack Storm.

     There was no reason to think she would with Jack anyone.

     One more night of anonymity. Hooking his fingers into her hair, he touched his lips to her shoulder and then urging her head to twist to his, laid on a kiss putting everything he felt into it.

     His name soon came up again, but not in questions.

     Between broken breaths, she whispered it.

     Unintelligible, she began it but couldn’t finish it.

     It echoed from the tub tiles as she quietly screamed it.

     Lastly, spoken against his skin, she sighed it.

     “I love you Jack.”

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