Same time next week, p.1
Same Time Next Week, page 1
SAME TIME NEXT WEEK
COPYRIGHT
Same Time Next Week
By DL White
Copyright 2015 DL White
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER TITLES BY THIS AUTHOR
Chapter 1
Shelby
A crash of porcelain against stone tile rang out into the silence. A hissing "shit!" followed.
"What happened? You okay in there, Shelby??"
"I'm fine," Shelby called out, her voice carrying out of the kitchen and around the corner to the den, where a woman with cocoa skin and a trendy mini afro pulled bubble-wrapped knickknacks from a box and artfully arranged them on a shelf.
"What'd you do?"
"Dropped some plates." She swore again, this time under her breath while whipping around a box- filled kitchen in search of a broom and a dustpan. "Mom, do you know where my–oh, there it is." She plucked the broom from a dark corner where it had been propped behind a stack of boxes yet to be unpacked.
"The Lenox ones? That we bought you from your registry?"
The fine china, now in shards, mixed with dirt and puffs of packing foam in the dustpan and tumbled into the garbage. "Yes."
"No!"
She sighed, rolling her eyes toward the den. "Yes. Don't worry about it, Mom. It's fine."
"Well, how many did you break?"
Shelby glanced up from her squatting position to find her mother leaning against the arch of the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. The glow behind her had an ethereal effect, the light of the sun peeking out from behind tightly drawn blinds. The house needed to stay cool, so though it was gloomy, the blinds stayed shut until at least dusk. There was no such thing as cool air before midnight in the summer in Orlando.
"Two. It's no big deal. I don't need a twelve place setting anyway."
"What if you have friends over? Or have a dinner party?"
Shelby's eyes lifted again, this time betraying annoyance. Rather than argue, she went back to her task of sweeping up bits of what should have been her wedding china set.
"Or what if you had a friend over? You could, you know. He wouldn't have to be a boyfriend. He could just be a friend friend. Someone to spend time with."
"Mom..." Shelby stood, her knees creaking, and returned the broom and dustpan to their corner. "Guys don't do the friend friend thing anymore. If I invited a guy over here to eat, he'd think I wanted to have sex with him. I think a twelve piece setting is overkill for that."
"Well..." She began, but Shelby cut her off.
"Don't even start," she protested, but giggled as she walked away. "Let's keep working. I only have you until tomorrow and I want to get a lot of this stuff unpacked."
Shelby and Evelyn worked through the afternoon and into the evening, until the sun had set and the house began to cool. One by one, boxes were emptied, flattened and stacked in the garage. Room by room, piece by piece the puzzle of a new life came together.
Shelby felt as if she'd already lived a lifetime in her twenty eight years, like it had only been a few short months since she was a different woman, living a different life. In truth, it had been years since she was the same old Shelby. After the accident that took the life of her fiancé, she spent nearly a year in a tumultuous battle. When it was over and things didn't get better like they were supposed to, Shelby thought a change would do everyone some good.
Then came the packing, stacking up memories into plain cardboard boxes, saying goodbye to a place that had always been home and moving three hours north. Close enough that people could still visit, but far enough away that people wouldn't drop in unannounced. It was a perfect place, a perfect time, a perfect way to start a new life.
"Boy, I feel like I've been beaten with a stick."
Fresh from a shower and smelling like rain, wearing a cotton top and matching shorts that showed off legs that didn't seem like they'd belong to a woman in her early seventies, Evelyn plopped onto the couch next to a listless Shelby. Half a pizza sat between them, half a bottle of soda, and as an attempt to make the meal healthy, a side salad sat untouched on the coffee table in front of them. The TV blared a reality show that neither paid attention to.
"Me too. We made good time today."
Shelby yawned while absentmindedly scanning the room. Earlier that morning it had been full of boxes. Twelve hours later, it looked like she'd lived there for years. Her books, figurines and keepsakes were all attractively displayed on the shelves of floor to ceiling book cases. Art had been hung, photos dispersed sparingly, even coasters had been placed underneath two glasses sweating with condensation. She was home.
This was home now.
"Shelby, your bed is made. You may as well crawl into it. You should sleep well tonight."
As if on cue, Shelby yawned again and stretched, wincing at the pain of moving limbs that had become tight after resting for a few minutes. "You're right. I'll watch the end of this in my room. Thank God the cable guy showed up."
"Leave that," Evelyn said, slapping Shelby's hands away from the pizza box. "I'll put it away, don't worry."
"Okay, but we get bugs here, like Miami. Put it in the fridge, okay?"
"Don't mother me," Evelyn said, smirking. "I taught you how to put away leftovers. Go to bed."
Shelby leaned over her, dropping a soft kiss on her cheek. "Night, mom. See you in the morning."
"Night, honey. See you tomorrow."
Shelby was going to bed, but tonight would end like all the other nights. She'd lie there, staring at the bluish hue of the TV, then slip onto her back to stare at the reflection of light on the ceiling. Feeling tired, willing sleep to come, to overtake her, to allow her body and mind to rest.
But it wouldn't come. Like every other night for so long, she'd lay awake, thinking, tossing, turning, torturing herself until the sun was just peeking over the horizon. Only then would she feel the cloak of sleep overcome her, giving her a few precious hours before another day began.
What had happened... happened. The past couldn't be unlived, undone. She desperately wanted to, if only to rid herself of this nightly ritual of wishing things had turned out differently.
But they hadn't. And this was her life. Tomorrow would come, the sun would rise and life would go on. Guilt-ridden sleepless night or not, when the alarm sounded, Shelby would fold back the covers and get out of bed.
Chapter 2
Jackson
He turned in his seat, his eyes roving the plush, indulgent cabin of the jet. He felt out of place, though he remembered almost fondly the days when a private jet was the norm, when male vocal group Boy Wonder, his old band, was too famous to fly commercial. They'd never be able to get on the plane and if they could, they'd be bothered nonstop and never be able to sleep, which was all a plane ride was good for.
A private jet offered the ability to rest in luxury, so while he felt out of place, he understood the need for it. And the full bar, the flight attendant in the shortest, tightest, slinkiest uniform possible, the genuine leather seats, the flat screen TVs. He nodded his head, sinking into memories. It had been good, back then.
Too bad they had to grow up.
As a child star on KidTV, a combination talent and comedy show aimed at teens and young adults, Jackson had honed his skills as an entertainer and landed a spot in music group Boy Wonder. For ten years, they ruled the charts and the hearts. Then, as suddenly as it began, the days of harmonious bubble gum pop and intricate choreography in color coordinated clothing ran out like sands through an hourglass. One day Jackson was part of a multi-platinum, Grammy award winning music group, more famous and wealthy than he'd ever imagined he could be. The next day he was on his own, marooned in the middle of a wasteland called the entertainment industry, trying to figure out how he fit in.
Nine years and two solo albums later, he'd found his groove in writing and production, where he could still make music but he didn't have to be out in front, pulled from every direction, tempted with all the pretty, pretty sin. He found an excuse to stay holed up in the studio or the writing room. He was good at it, sought after by labels and arti sts and as the years rolled by, he became more popular and higher in demand. A musical force to be reckoned with, if he had to say so himself.
Writing music wasn't hard. Producing albums wasn't hard. Making stars out of hormone-ridden teenagers wasn't hard. He was a natural, without being boastful about it. It just…wasn't a challenge. He longed for something that stretched him, that made him grow, that made him wake up every day and hit the ground running, then fall into bed every night, muscles screaming, wondering if he had one more day in him. He missed that feeling.
He languished in LA, where the air was thick with smog, the streets were littered with garbage, the homeless multiplied by the day and the sticky-sweet layer of sleaze oozed all over the entertainment industry. Why not join his Boy Wonder counterparts and retire from music? He could spend his days ordering Mai Tais from cute waitresses in skimpy clothing, baking the sun, allowing his mind to compose songs but not letting his fingers write them down.
Kim was why. He'd stuck around for her. A lot of good it did him. Bitter laughter had burned in his throat while he read the letter she’d left in an envelope, leaning up against, ironically a framed photo of the two of them. They'd grown apart, she wrote. Had different goals in life. She had found someone else. She loved him, but wasn't in love with him.
What did that even mean? Grown apart? Not in love? Different goals? The words on the page swam together as a black velvet box holding an enormous diamond solitaire burned a hole in his pocket.
It was only a matter of time before he was waking up in strange places, unable to remember what he was doing there and how he got there. And where his clothes were. It scared him at first, but there was pain to numb. Weeks and months were pissed away in a drunken stupor. Deadlines missed. Reputation tarnished. He was becoming a statistic and it was quickly getting out of hand.
A phone call had saved his life.
"Can I get you anything, Jackson?"
The soft voice of the flight attendant interrupted his thoughts. He smiled up into a face that was kind but weathered with age. She'd done her best to enhance it with makeup, but the damage was done. Looking into her eyes, he saw something that resonated in him down to his soul.
Pain, maybe. Desperation. Her job was to wear as little as possible and serve food and drinks for music's reigning prince, Rod Phillips, and his band. It was an okay gig, better than serving wings at Hooters, but not by much, especially when Rod got drunk and slapped her ass, demanding shots.
"No thanks," he said, tipping his still full water bottle at her.
Her smile was thin and barely painted on as she slipped past him to the seat in front of him, bending at the knee to whisper in the ear of the guitarist, Duke, who was already too drunk but ordered another beer.
Jackson was tense. He reconsidered a drink but thought better of it and reached under his seat for the same worn, brown leather bag he'd been dragging around for years, his security blanket that held everything he needed–his tunes and his work. He pulled out both, shoving ear buds into his ears and cranking up the music. He balanced a laptop on his knees and opened a composition program, then scrolled a familiar menu, navigating by memory to a collection of songs he was piecing together. It was the challenge he sought, had longed for and honestly needed. But he was terrified out of his mind of screwing it up.
Jackson hadn't come to this new gig quietly. Or easily. It had taken some arm twisting and convincing. He'd never been a music director before. He didn't think he could do it, not on the scale that Rod seemed to want. He could produce a few songs and an album, sure.
Change the navigation of a career? Put together a tour? Surely there were better options than a former member of a boyband and a has-been pop star.
Rod must have been desperate. He'd begged. "You're the only guy I want for this job. You did my first hit. Remember the writing sessions? We had a great time... we could do that again. We could be that team again."
Jackson considered saying yes, but he wasn't comfortable taking chances with Rod's career. The slightest tumble–a song that didn’t chart high enough or an album that flopped could topple him. Wouldn't it be fun, though, to be that team again? Hanging out in Rod's studio, white Chinese food boxes covering the table, cans of Red Bull and dirty coffee mugs lining the counter, empty bags of Doritos and Hershey's Kisses filling the trash bin. Lyric after lyric flowing from both sets of lips. Beat after beat tapped onto the table. Nods of satisfaction listening to the playback, the fruits of their labor.
Jackson laughed, tipping his desk chair back while Rod reminisced, his laugh echoing into the ceiling of a big, empty, lonely house, where he was doing nothing anyway. Rod was offering a change of pace and scenery, something to do to take his mind off of her.
Then Rod hit below the belt, leaning forward, his voice low, his tone sympathetic and his brown eyes showing a gleam of concern. "You've got to get back in the game, man," he’d said. "Kim's gone. Drowning in a bottle won't bring her back. You used to be the guy that lectured people about that stuff. Now you're the guy being lectured to. That's not the Jackson Sweeney that I know."
Orlando was muggy. Sticky-wet air invaded the aircraft as soon as the cabin doors opened and the staircase was lowered. Leather bag on one shoulder, duffel bag on the other, he deplaned and walked quickly to one of five waiting vehicles on the private airstrip. Rod and his band were riding in limousines, no doubt headed to Rod's mansion to continue the party before heading to their own estates with what Jackson liked to call a flavor of the moment- the girls chosen to party with the band. He had other plans which included a shower, a hot meal and a bed.
Beyond the fleet of shiny cars, a rusty passenger van huffed. The driver side door opened and a lanky man stepped out, his wiry, jet black hair just brushing his shoulders. He walked around to the side of the van and slid the door open, nodding at Jackson as he tossed both bags into the back seat, then climbed back inside. The van was old, but at least the A/C worked. Jackson climbed into the passenger seat and snapped his seat belt over his lap.
"Thanks for picking me up. Were you waiting long?"
Never a man of many words, his childhood friend Ray simply uttered, "'Sup. Nope." Ray put the van in drive and pulled away from the airstrip.
I don't believe I'm back here, Jackson thought to himself, reclining the seat and flipping down the visor to block the afternoon sun.
Chapter 3
Jackson
He sat on the edge of the bed in a t-shirt and boxers, elbows on his knees, half−listening to the banter of the morning crew on the radio. Morning had come much earlier than he wanted it to. The previous night was a blur. He wasn’t even home for ten minutes before the phone started ringing. Friends–people he'd known since before he was famous, figured out that he was back in Orlando and wanted to stop by and see him for a few minutes, because it had been so long since they could say hello in person. He should have known it would turn into a party. Not that he minded, because they brought food and drinks and made him laugh and reminded him of how much he missed being home. Still, he had only planned to grab a sandwich, take a shower, and hit the bed.
If he managed to make it home before midnight tonight, he wasn’t answering the phone.
“In today’s Celebrity Dirt Alert, we heard that Rod “The Bod” Phillips brought a stray home from his recent trip to LA."
"Ooh, Jill…"
"Oh, not a girl…”
“You almost broke some hearts."
“I know, right? No, it was Jackson Sweeney! He hasn’t been back in town for a long time, but I heard that he’s moved back into his old place and uh….he’s gonna be here working with Rod on his new album and world tour next year. Pretty exciting.”
“Now that’s good news for Jackson. He’s been off the scene for a while.”
“Yeah, well there was that big breakup with that model… what was her name?”
'Kim,’ Jackson thought, breathing through the pang that shot through his chest at the mention of her. ‘Her name is Kim Valentine. I loved her.’
“She destroyed him when she left.”
"You think?"
