Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (19 page)

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

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

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

Choosing not to respond to my 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, I propped on my arms, incredulously inquiring, “You would really do that?” Deepening my voice, I 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 my words, he exited the room, heading down the hall to the den. Grudgingly, I watched his departure with as much interest as I ever had, the way his jeans molded to his backside, and the stretch of his tee shirt on his shoulders.

Retreating to my cry zone, a hot shower, I remained dry eyed, but continually adjusted the water until the hot water tank bled empty, and only then did I step out.

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

Confused and conflicted, I listened to his interactions with Tristan. A piece of me felt I should demand he leave, and a part of me felt I shouldn’t deny the two of them any time together.

Jack stayed for jambalaya, and Tristan didn’t seem to notice we weren’t speaking. After reading him a book for bed, before his bath rather than after, Jack hugged our little boy. I heard him quietly promise to return the following day, and saw Tristan bob his head in an agreeable nod.

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

The second Tristan heard my bedtime story and was in bed, I texted Olivia, asking my friend to call me, adding a code we had created between us. 9-1-1 combined with ‘call me’ was a real emergency and had been used twice—once when I 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 me, and now. Secure in the knowledge that my friend would call on her first work break, I curled miserably into a ball in the bed.

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

Jack, not the young professional woman, stood just beyond the peephole. Dressed in his usual attire, his appearance, unlike mine, was groomed. 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,” I 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, I heard Tristan’s tv, 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 me, and although he moved on down the hall, for a moment, the atmosphere felt intimate.

The shower restored my state of mind as well as energy level. Soon I was trying not to laugh when the young woman went all fan girl upon seeing Jack.

“Oh!” With a twirl of her 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, all 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 his mother snapped a picture. Jack posed 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. My heart paced with happiness, and Jack moved against me, lacing his fingers with mine. Despite the animosity and anger fogging my heart, I 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 my phone. I 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 came with the stipulation of her silence. I 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?”

N
ot knowing how to field that one, Jack looked to me. Tristan’s rapt gaze did not waver, so I gave it a go. “Well, she knows your—” Quickly, I clamped my 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, I looked to Jack to see if he noticed the slip I 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 I skeptically entered the conversation. “A guitar? Isn’t he young yet?”

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

It did sound silly, and I curved a relenting smile as I 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 we quietly spoke as we 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's pushing him? I mean, I just wanted to show him some easy songs. Not force him into anything.”

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

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

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

While they went, I stayed at the house, unable to commit to a day with Jack– not that he had invited me. There was still an underlying tension between us despite the relaxed conversation. I 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, I didn’t want to miss seeing the progress he was making. The extra days would not be paid leave, but I had a feeling my money problems were over when they concerned Tristan.

Olivia came by, and abandoning the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the den, I 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 us, 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, I 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 I knew she was such a good friend that she’d been kept awake by this most recent turn of events. “I think there’s a good possibility that you took everything he said wrong.”

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

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

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

Hearing Olivia’s view of the fight with Jack shed some hope in my heart. As I tried to remember the exact conversation, my 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, I broke up a couple of the fried chicken strips into my salad and scooped a few fries into my 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 the plastic knife and fork.

Considering Olivia’s words, I was amazed my friend could be so wise with advice these days, when for years, she’d spouted reckless ideas. Obligingly, I pulled a pen from the plastic peanut butter jar that Tristan had made into a pencil holder using stickers and glitter glue. Letting my mind drift to the hurtful afternoon, I jotted the conversation as recalled on the back of a junk mail envelope.

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

Tristan was glowing with happy excitement, and careful of his crutches, I 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. I jerked around, finding my friend salivating, not over the ice cream Jack set on the bar, but over Jack himself.

“Olivia! Seriously!” Grounding out the reprimand, I ignored the sundae in question and shooed 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 my little boy had ever called my anything except Momma, and dismayed, I searched his tiny face. Finally, remembering the source of his question, I narrowed my eyes again at Olivia.

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

Jack paused to give me an entirely different pointed look. One that seemed hot and hungry, yet dispassionate at the same time– as if I were some random girl who caught his fancy for a few seconds. When I came out of this strange reverie, Jack and Olivia were in the process of introducing themselves, and I 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, I 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, I saw him hopping around as the console was unpacked from the sack, and my accusatory gaze went to Jack. “An Xbox?”

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

Again, if my look could have slashed, a certain metal god would be bleeding. Jack seemed likewise startled at this 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, his eyes trained on Jack, who was now loading the game controllers with batteries. Jack looked up at this, and whatever he saw in my face put a defiant glint in his dark gaze.

Pulling in a calming breath, I viewed his new guitar, making sure my exhilaration matched Tristan’s excited mood. Reaching for it, I lightly strummed the strings without hooking it into its mini amp. My father owned a few acoustics, and throughout my childhood, had taught me and my siblings various chords and keys.

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