♪♫••═════ PART TWO~CHAPTER : 21 ═════••♬ ♭
Slightly disturbed at the out of context scene, I sent a cautious look at Jack who was still sleeping and again bumped the volume.
"Are we seeing a slap mark on Jack Stone's face?" The one called Ed made a spectacle of gesturing his hands over his mouth, and of bugging his eyes at an over exposed picture of Jack as we exited the car. As the picture zoomed to the screen fifty times larger than life, there was a clear outline of fingers on his tanned skin.
"If you ask me, Jack Stone should have been slapped by some woman a long time ago!" Hilary flipped her hair with that demure female joke.
“Don't dare hate on my boy!” Ed flamboyantly huffed, and they both laughed. “So tell me Hilary, do you believe the OTHER smack going around?” Here he laughed at his own pun. “That this Marissa Duplei deliberately totaled Leanna Gavin's car?”
“I don't know, Ed. That seems a bit farfetched to me.”
'Thank you, Hilary', I thought, but clamped my teeth on my lip as the slanderous broadcast continued.
“Come on. Imagine it,” Ed urged. “You are a nobody from nowhere Mississippi and find yourself the fiancee of Jack Stone. How can you not hate Leanna Gavin, lingerie model, for the past she and Jack have?”
“I'm not saying I wouldn't hate her, Ed. I'm saying I wouldn't total the chick's car in some kind of rage.”
'Thank you Hilary. Damn you Ed.'
“At least I wouldn't do anything so drastic just because she is his ex. But, if she is not, then that is a whole 'nother ballgame Ed.”
“Well let's see Hilary. Does that look like a relationship that is ended to you?”
A still shot went up behind the celebrity gossip hosts, and I felt the physical pain in my heart of a mental stab in the back.
Jack and Randi at the drop party. It was clearly last night's party because the new Jackal album promo poster was also in the scene. Jack was leaning down to the other woman's level, intent on what she was saying with more than a slight 'holding' smile on his lips. His fingers even rested on Randi's shoulder. How had they been caught in a picture when I had never seen them together the entire night?
“So, viewers, what do you think? Text 0333 for Leanna and 0666 for Marissa. Who do you want to win this cat fight?”
Obviously, Jack had kept this embarrassing broadcast under wraps all day, and this is why earlier Dax had been the recipient of Jack's glare and had hurriedly powered off the portico television.
Muting the volume, I restrained the urge to fling the remote like a Frisbee at his head and instead tossed it to the bed as I exited. In the other room, I lay awake.
The 'Shut Up Scene' kept everything other ugly scene in perceptive. The audience of these shows was built on exaggerations and speculations. Jack would not be cheating on me, and he had no reason to lie to me about Miranda being his ex.
What I was perturbed about was that after numerous warnings about never letting my guard down at the party, he had let himself be caught in a picture with Randi. Couldn't he have respectfully stayed apart from the lingerina the entire night?
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“Are you making chocolate chip pancakes?” Tristan leaned his forearms on the granite counter, and I frowned when I saw his knees on the barstool.
“Tristan Jack, sit down,” I reproved and waved a spatula his direction for emphasis. “And, I'm not finding any chocolate chips so we will just have normal pancakes. Cool?”
“Daddy lets me sit like this.”
“Daddy does not!”
Just yesterday, Jack had backed me up when I reprimanded our son on the stools on the patio.
“He does.”
“Well he doesn't anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I will tell him not to.”
“Mom why? You are such a bitch sometimes!”
The skillet dropped from my hand smacking the glass top stove as I whipped around in horror. “Tristan Jack! I do not know where you heard that word. But, if I ever hear you say it again, I will spank you.”
In his young life, he had only had two spankings which amounted to several swats, but they had been as heartbreaking to give as they were for him to get.
“I'm sorry Momma. I didn't know it was a bad word.”
“Well it is. A bad, bad word.”
“Then why does Daddy say it?”
How I wanted to pry and ask exactly what Daddy had said, but I restrained the urge and instead said, “It doesn't matter who says it or why. What matters is that you do not say it for any reason.”
“What are we not saying?” Jack sauntered into the room going straight for the fridge. A pair of drawstring shorts, possibly swim trunks, rode low on his hips.
As that was the only article of clothing covering that fine body, I was slightly addled when I tore my gaze away and spoke. “Huh? Oh. If we are not saying it, then I can't tell you can I?” For the sake of not arguing in front of our son, I swung away with a smirk that I hoped rivaled any of his, then picked up the skillet and turned back. “You think we can go to a grocery store today?”
Sliding a cup of orange juice to Tristan, he set the carton down instead of pouring his own into a waiting glass. Taking the three steps that separated us, he wound his arms around me squeezing me tightly to him. “What are you hungry for, Mariss?”
The memories of last night hit in a happy haze, but other than an acknowledging smile, I ignored the connotations of his words as well as the added implication pressing into my backside. “Eggs. And we need peanut butter. And healthy snacks. And--”
“Okay, but unless you need to go to the store yourself...” Seizing my phone from the counter, he asked, “Do you care if I...?” I shook my head. In a playful argument about privacy a few days ago, I had removed the code. His thumb moved around on the screen, then passing it to me, he explained, “Just order from the app and it will be here tomorrow. Or send Dax after anything you need now.”
“Today we are still having pancakes, right?” Tristan confirmed.
“Pancakes?! Is that all you eat TJ? Pizza and pancakes?” Jack went after him next with the bear hug arms.
Tristan nodded. One of his rare bashful smiles surfaced upon knowing that he was being teased like a kid. Then he asked, “Do you have chocolate chips Daddy?”
“Chocolate chip cookies? I think...”
“For the pancakes,” I clarified, and Jack zoned into space for a few seconds.
“My mom used to make those for me...” Snapping back to the present, he moved his head in a regretful shake. “I don't, but we will put it on the list.”
Tristan began to flip the kitchen television to one of his stations. Jack lounged on the counter beside me and distracted the batter mixing. Offering up his juice, he raised his brows when I drank it all down. Realizing what I had done, I offered a humorous apology.
Twisting long enough to pour another glass to the brim, he turned back and offered it as well, but began to sip it, himself, when I refused.
“So what is the bad word.” Covertly he whispered between sips.
“He called me a bitch--”
I wiped at the spewed juice that wet my arm, as Jack subsequently began to choke. Tearing off a paper towel, I continued the cleanup and waited until he caught his breath before continuing the story.
“And he said he learned the word from you.”
“No. No effing way.”
“You said it Daddy.”
We both gave a start when Tristan interjected into what had begun as a hushed, cloistered conversation.
“I shouldn't have then.” Jack addressed our small son and apologized, “It is a bad word and I'm sorry-”
“Momma?! You're on t.v. !” Tristan's attention was already strayed.
The picture filling the screen was of me and Jack, hand in hand, descending the front steps of this house to the waiting limo.
Jack practically leaped across the bar for the remote and had the channel switched in seconds.
My limp fingers let the whisk drop into the batter as I searched his face, not for an account of his actions just now, but seeking understanding of something much more disturbing.
“How in the holy hell?! Jack who took that picture?”
“Bad word, Momma,” My four-year old conscious piped in, but I barely heard and didn’t even acknowledge.
Confusion clouded Jack’s features before his face cleared, and he shrugged undisturbed. “Oh anytime something is going on, Jerry is always out in that damn tree.”
Tristan’s eyes popped out in perfect animation of my internal emotions, and yet our departure on the drop party night suddenly made sense.
Jack had captured my hand as if all were blissful between us despite the fact that I had just hit him, and despite being blindsided by our son with news of my booty calls. He had known we would be photographed.
Dishing up the first two hot pancakes, I eyed Jack as he averted his gaze and fished flatware from a drawer. Setting the plate and syrup in front of Tristan, I decided to probe into the troubles that had me tossing and turning all night.
“Why did you change the channel? I wanted to see.”
“No, you didn’t.”
The next puddle of batter sizzled in the pan, and I looked up, abandoning all thoughts of faking a casual interrogation. “Why?” This time, my question was genuinely curious. Last night’s broadcast haunted my memories, specifically the picture of Jack and Randi.
“Why, Daddy? Mom was pretty on tv.”
Was. Although at the moment, I was wearing a cute summer outfit from one of Olivia’s mandatory mix and match sessions. My only primping today had been to pull the straightener through the uncombed wet hair I had gone to bed in.
“Yeah. She always is. Beautiful.” Jack’s eyes held mine, and I melted in the dark glimmers. Then he said, “Can we talk about this later? Right now, we need to talk about today. Tristan, buddy, your physical therapist will be here at two—”
“Miss Dana is coming to California?”
We both did a double take at the correct pronunciation of the state. While Jack quickly explained that a new PT was going to be coming, I dished up two more pancakes and poured two more into the skillet. If Tristan continued his progress rate, a PT would only be necessary for a couple of more weeks.
Mariss, I’ve got a couple of meetings. Emma will be here any second, and—”
“Already here,” Emma sang, as she glided into the room waving.
Feeling suddenly territorial of the house, I concentrated on my cooking. Was Emma also privileged enough to let herself in at leisure in the same manner as Randi?
“I guess I’m running late,” Jack drawled.
“You always are,” his publicist retorted with an uncharacteristic sunny smile.
Unprovoked, Jack picked up a pancake rolling it into finger food the same way I had the day before. “Chill pill, Emmajesty.” Dipping his breakfast into the generous puddle of syrup spilling off Tristan’s stack, he sent a meaningful glance over the island to me. “We’ll talk later. About everything. Okay?”
“You may as well tell her now, Jack.”
Jack glared at his publicist and sent a reassuring look to me before pivoting away. His long legs carried him quickly across the kitchen. “I’ve got to get dressed.”
Emma watched him ascend the stairs and began to help herself to the single-serving coffee maker. While the coffee was brewing, she cast a manicured finger toward the pancakes. “Do you mind if I have one of those?”
Although I politely gave the other woman the go ahead, I was barraged with conflicting feelings. A touch of guilt for my lack of manners by not offering, but mostly, the possessive feeling again. The pancakes were cooked for Tristan and Jack, and if anyone else, Dax.
“Don’t you hate it when men do that?” Emma asked, while cutting a tiny bite of the pancake.
“I can’t stand to be late myself,” I agreed.
“Oh, I’m quite used to that with Jack. That’s why I insist on picking him up for these scenes. I always tell him the appointment is thirty minutes earlier than it really is.” Emma’s snicker aroused my hackles even more. But the hint of familiarity with Jack was quickly forgotten when Emma went on, “I meant the ‘talk to you later thing.’ You shouldn’t have to wait—not when it would just take a few minutes to tell you.”
“In all fairness, he thinks he’s running late,” I reveled in pointing out.
“How did you enjoy the party?” Emma extracted the coffee cup from beneath the maker’s nozzle.
“It was fine.” I shrugged and began running water in the batter bowl. For the first time, I noticed the sink was clean and wondered if Dax pulled kitchen duty as well.
“And you haven’t seen the reviews?”
“Of the album?” I played dumb, and I knew I didn’t imagine the exasperation flashing in Emma’s eyes.
The other woman had something she was dying to impart, and at last, she burst. “The drop party. The media is having a rough time accepting Jack and Randi are no longer together.
“They never were. Together.” I prided myself on how smoothly the rebuttal left my lips.
“They were together as far as his fans are concerned. I was curious to see how this thing with you and him would go over.”
“And how did it go over?” Again, I played dumb.
“The general consensus is they belong together. Jack and Randi.”
“Oh well.” I shrugged. Hearing the truth aloud, and so blunt, stung, but I wasn’t about to let on.
“It’s actually not that simple.”
“How so?”
“It’s a game. And we play for Jack to win. The fans don’t want to see him chained to some groupie from a hundred years ago, no disrespect. He’s a rock god, and rock gods bang the hot models.” Emma tilted the coffee mug to her lips.
There it was. The unusual reference Jack had made the previous night. Something about the tabloids knowing he wasn’t marrying a groupie. Was that what was being said about our hookup five years ago?
“Why are you telling me this? He’s not going to break up with me because his fans say so.”
“Of course not.” Emma’s tone was deceptively soothing, and the bracelets on her wrist rattled like a desert snake as she continued cutting into her pancake and sipping her coffee. “That’s why behind every public figure is a publicist. We do what they don’t have sense to do. I work for the record label, not Jack. And don’t ever get that confused. Because it’s very different. Every decision is in the label’s best interest, which is ultimately Jack’s best interest. And Jack’s best future interest is something you should want also. If you don’t want all this to go away.” Emma encompassed the kitchen and the pool area outside in her sweeping gaze. “Now, what we need to decide is how far to take your relationship, publicly, of course. Because his public will lose respect for him if it drags on too long. And that’s never good for sales, no matter how good the music might be.
“Jack’s not going to go for this.” I felt like a parrot with my repetitions.
“Again, that’s my job. See, I know all about his plans. That he will refuse to sign the label again. That he’s done with metal and wants to reinvent as Jax with an ‘X,’ and be some blues rock mutant like his dad.” Scorn dripped from Emma’s words. “And it’s my job to make sure Jack Storm is still sellable for the label even when he no longer exists.”
Jack had mentioned going in a different music direction, but never expanded on the subject, and it was annoying for Emma to have details I myself did not have of the man I loved.
“I really don’t know what you’re wanting from me.” Concentrating on flipping the last two pancakes, I tried not to feel needled.
“Just your understanding. For anything that is about to happen.”
“Which is?”
“For starters, not being seen in public with Jack.”
An icy tingle trickled down my back, but I bravely scoffed, “You can’t lock me in the house.”
“Of course not,” Emma patronized again. “Jerry will be paid to selectively snap his shots. Shooting none of you, and some of Randi coming and going, will keep the image alive. I am not saying these things to be mean. I just want to prepare you. Because the way it’s looking, it will be best if you don’t go on tour.”
This time, shock shot through every vein, and I couldn’t help but be in awe of the evil way the last part had smoothly been added into the stakes. A dry laugh heaved from my mouth, and I fell against the counter. “Good luck with that. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, but Jack wants us there.”
The first leg of the tour began in a few weeks. Jack’s eyes always lit up when talking of it, and of us coming along. At the thought of Tristan, I twisted my chin. When I found him avidly watching this barbed exchange, I smiled as if this were a friendly disagreement, similar to the ones that sometimes occurred between me and Olivia.
Emma came closer, setting her mug down next to the plate of pancakes and tore off a piece of one although she had not finished her own.
“Love, you are misunderstanding this entire conversation. I am just telling you how it is. Jack with Randi sells albums. Don’t take anything I am saying personally. It’s business. You won’t be on that tour. It won’t be approved unless Randi’s favorability index goes way down, and yours up. Which isn’t likely.”
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