Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (24 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carefully, I pronounced the correct word, making sure the ‘D’ was heard and defined hoard the best I could for a four-year old. My 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 Mariss to give me hell about.

“Give us a call tomorrow. We’ll try to fly out by early afternoon,” my pop planned as we stood at the front door. My mother swung Tristan up in a hug and squeezed Mariss’ shoulder in parting.

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

The door closed behind them. I leaned against it for a moment, watching as Mariss 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. I saw that our son was hopefully hanging over the last two slices of the cheesecake.

To my surprise, Mariss consented for whatever reason. But, she had been doing the parent thing way longer than I had, so she knew what she was doing. I hoped she did. Tonight, I was ready for Tristan to be asleep, not sugar rushing.

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

After carrying Tristan to bed, I tucked him in with a very quick story and a promise of three stories the next night. Then I 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, I imagined the things we would do, and with a twist of my fingers to the button fly, made my jeans a little less tight.

The bedroom was empty also, and the drone of running water propelled me 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 I needed.

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

“Jacks?”

“Hmm?”

“Aha!”

In her excitement, she shifted, and my answer was a partial groan as I enjoyed her backside against my dick.

“What?”

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

“No idea.” Squeezing a tit, I enjoyed the responses of her body as I played. The special weight that was all hers in my hand, the tickle of the tip in my palm, the quickening of her heart and breath.

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

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

“Last name?”

Her head turned slightly as she made the inquiry, dragging her hair across my 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 my fingers dip beneath the water to her pussy, I hoped to distract her, and I found my efforts rewarded when I heard the hitch of her breath and felt the arc of her chest beneath my 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 me for who I was, even before I was who I was. Growing up, my dad was who he was, making me and Meg who we were to the outside world. It was hard to ever know who really gave a shit about me when it came to women and friends.

I was enjoying that Mariss didn’t really have a clue of anything beyond this me, right here. Not that it would change anything with her. I 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.

My fingers had paused their light strokes, hovering over her doorbell, and now I pressed and smiled into her hair when she gelled against me again.

My fingers moved in circular swipes until I slipped them beyond, into her silky slick heat and transferred my thumb to her abandoned clit. I savored her sweet, instantaneous moan. Hooking the fingers of my other hand into her hair, I touched my lips to her shoulder and then urging her head to twist to mine, laid on a kiss, putting everything I felt into it.

My 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 my skin, she sighed it.

“I love you Jack.”

T
ext me, the second you get there! And call me ASAP?” Olivia’s eyes shimmered, and I was sure mine were too as we stood hugging on the tiny porch of my home.

The new luggage Jack had surprised us with, strained at its seams and lined the hallway just inside the front door. Since Jack hadn’t been able to find a set in any one of Tristan’s favorite themes, Tristan had ended up with a variety; a rolling Hot Wheels duffel, a Bandit backpack, and a rolling Scooby backpack.

Jack appeared, bustling at high-speed, the mode he had been in all morning, and grabbed up all three of Tristan’s bags before shouldering around Olivia and me with a grin. The smile had rarely been off his lips in the last hours, and I knew he was anxious to be back in LA, and just as anxious to have us there with him.

Us
. A word I was still not used to, even though I had dreamed of it for so long. He bent, slightly shuffling his own bags in the trunk of the rental to make room for ours, and when I tore my eyes from the molded pockets of his jeans, I found a broad smile had joined Olivia’s teary countenance.

“I’m so happy for you, Rissa. Gosh what am I going to do without you guys, without my little guy?” Olivia had spent a quarter of an hour saying her goodbyes to Tristan, while showing him how to use the new drawing app she downloaded for him on his tablet.

“I will take good care of ‘em,” Jack promised, having walked by in time to hear her mournful words, and he even paused to pull her into a light hug. Olivia actually blushed and had to rivet her gaze from him as he bent for more luggage. This time, I was the one who smiled knowingly. Liv might be married, but who could be immune to Jack?

“And you take care of my dog,” I told Olivia. Bally would be joining us in California within the next couple of weeks, but until then, the dog was boarding with Liv. Tristan had spent a day with Olivia, picking out new toys for Bally, and adding them to the rest of the lab’s things at the home away from home.

♪♫¨♫♪

Watching Tristan’s face at the airport was as exhilarating as the upcoming trip. I had only flown once before, but this experience was vastly different from the get go. Jack turned off of the main terminal access road and almost immediately small jets became visible on the tarmac and inside open hangars.

“Do you see hangar numbers?” He inquired, squinting through the windshield. “We are looking for forty-five, but I don’t see numbers…”

“There!” I pointed to a metallic eleven glinting in the sunlight.

“Do you have a passport?” Jack inquired, as the car rolled past each number and we watched for ours.

“Do I need one?” Airport security was ever-changing, and I panicked, thinking requirements possibly had changed for domestic flights.

“You will need one.” He answered, stressing the ‘will’ with a curve of his lips. “And Tristan too. We have ten Europe dates on this next tour.”

Parking the car in front of hangar forty-five, he popped the trunk, and hopped out. Jack hoisted Tristan, piggy-back style, before grabbing as much luggage as he could carry. I followed suit, and we headed to the tiny entrance in the back of the hangar.

Before we closed the distance, the door burst open, and Jack’s father, wearing a broad grin, advanced on us. Quick greetings were exchanged, and he gallantly insisted on divesting me of my load, leaving only the messenger bag hanging on my shoulder. Inside, Jack deposited Tristan on a chair next to his mom, and the men went out for the rest of the things.

“Hi Marissa,” Jack’s mother greeted, and pulled Tristan into a warm hug. “And hello, Tristan. Are you ready to fly today in an airplane?”

Tristan was quickly sugared up with a kiss or two from this new grandmother, as well as powdered donuts and hot chocolate. Watching the two of them, I threw away the hot chocolate packages, filled a cup with hot water, and dumped in a package of instant coffee.

The room was outfitted as a comfortable lounge, but instead of settling in one of the cushy chairs, I paced. Jack and his father were carrying the bags through, to another door leading to the actual hangar. Hovering at this threshold, I marveled at the glossy white jet, and wanted to show it to Tristan, but my son was deep in conversation with his grandmother.

The luggage was in a neat line, largest to smallest, and I wondered if they organized it by weight when loading. The glare refracting from the runway beyond the large opening was bright, and a couple of men appeared from this direction. They shook hands with Jack and his father, and then the younger of the two climbed into the plane.

“Mariss?” Jack asked, as he walked among the luggage, “What do you want up front with you, and which bag does Tristan need with him?”

Stepping forward, I indicated the bags in question, and when Jack began to toss the others up to the plane, the guy began to stow them into a cargo area.

At this time, Jack’s mother and Tristan emerged, and Jack’s father turned from his conversation at hand. Kneeling to Tristan, he gave him a hug, and teased of the crutch, “You don’t even look like you need that anymore! You about ready to throw it away?”

Tristan nodded with a shy smile.

We boarded, Jack again carrying Tristan, and I tried not to gawk in awe at mocha leather seating, which included a long couch type seat and two recliner type chairs, and wood grain walls, and plush carpet. Right away, I noticed my stuff, as well as Tristan and Jack’s, on the couch, and that is where the three of us seated ourselves.

Jack’s mother took a seat in one of the thick chairs, and his father in the chair across. The plane began to roll, preparing for takeoff, and I tried to manage Tristan as, constrained by his seat belt, he twisted to look out the window behind him.