Same time next week, p.3
Same Time Next Week, page 3
Shelby
Oh my fucking God!
She kept saying it to herself, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why would he be at a grocery store at 5 AM? Didn’t he have people to shop for him?
It amused Shelby, only slightly though, that she was more pissed than star struck because she looked like ass and she knew it. She hadn’t even attempted to comb her hair or wipe off her lipstick from earlier in the day, or shower or…or… anything. And here she was in the middle of a grocery store, staring at one of music’s most eligible bachelors looking like shit on a stick. She cursed at herself all the way down the aisle.
Just shop and get the hell out of here, she told herself, mumbling something about frozen waffles and rounded a corner. A sale caught her eye and she turned her head. Beyond the sign boasting low prices on things she didn't need, she caught a flash of raven hair duck behind the end cap. Then his cart was yanked out of sight.
Was he watching me?
She was flattered, sort of. If she'd looked better, she’d have been happy to return the attention, but who knew what he was looking at? And why? Was he laughing at her? Did he think she was drunk? Crazy? Was he comparing her to all those hot women he knew back in LA?
And what was he even doing here in Orlando?
Hope he liked the view.
Fuming, Shelby dug her short grocery list out of her bag and began checking items off, trying to put him —that gorgeous piece of man with blue eyes and dark hair and broad chest and voice like silk — out of her mind. It would probably be the only time she’d ever see him. It was just her luck that she met him at the wrong time, but maybe that’s what she deserved. She didn’t need to complicate her life anymore.
She parked her cart with the others and carried her bags to her car, popping the trunk with the button on her key ring and dumping the bags into the trunk. The sun crested the horizon, lighting up the car with a soft pink glow when she slid into the driver's seat.
Shelby started the car and checked her rear view mirror. Holy… God. Why didn’t he cringe when he saw her? Her hair was everywhere, her eyes were red, her lips still stained with the previous day’s color. And her t-shirt was on inside out, the backward logo emblazoned across her chest. She wanted to yell and curse and throw things, but would have felt stupid doing so.
Instead, she rammed the car into drive and squealed out of the parking lot.
Jackson
He had ducked into his car, key in the ignition, about to start it up when he saw her bounce out of the store. She looked to be in a hurry, carrying several bags and a small purse toward a late model Mercedes. He felt creepy staring at her, but he couldn't stop himself if he'd wanted to. And he didn't.
She was oblivious, slamming her trunk closed after loading her groceries into it, then walking around to the driver side door, her breasts under her t-shirt bouncing with her movements. He licked his suddenly very dry lips, feeling a twitch in his dick and a lick of fire through his groin. Down boy, he muttered to himself. Not today. But good to see you’re still alive.
Faster than he would like, she ducked into her car. From across the parking lot, he could barely make out her face through the tint in her windshield. It had a nice shape to it, sort of a heart. Cute, petite nose. Full lips. Arched brows… so maybe her mussed and messy look was a fluke.
He watched her check herself out in the rearview mirror, a look of disgust crossing her face. He laughed out loud, the sound bouncing around the interior of the car. Yep, she’s kicking herself, right about now. She rolled her eyes at herself, her plump lips pursed as she pulled out, tires squealing as she rounded the corner at the end of the street.
Girls were funny. She was pissed that she looked like shit.
He didn’t care. He hoped he might see her again.
Chapter 6
Shelby
"Did he say anything to you? Besides the ‘hi' and ‘sorry' and whatever else?"
"What was he supposed to say? ‘Hey chick, you look like shit. Wanna go get some breakfast?' No, he didn't say anything else to me."
"Aww. Well, next time."
"Whatever," she replied, brushing past the subject. Shelby had relayed the entire embarrassing story and all Evelyn could think or talk about was if Jackson had said anything to her and what would happen ‘next time'. It was almost guaranteed that there would be no next time. She had thought it would be fun to share the experience with her mom, but not if she wasn't going to act right. "What's dad up to?"
"You know. His usual. Building things out in the garage. He sends his love." Shelby's father, Roberto had been obsessed with models since he was a boy in Cuba and that was all he'd had to entertain himself. Trains, planes, cars-if a model of it existed, he built them. Thankfully, he didn't keep many of them. He ended up selling or donating most of them. It had kept him busy since he retired from teaching at a Miami junior high. It also kept him out of Evelyn's hair. She'd recently retired as a secretary for Dade County School District.
"Send him some love back for me."
"I will. So, you've moved to Orlando. All unpacked and everything. Now what? Are you going to find a job? Go to school? Lay on your couch for the next fifty years? What's next?"
That was the million dollar question. The idea was to get out of Miami. Everything from this point on was an unplanned adventure. Lucas had made sure she was taken care of for the foreseeable future. Beyond that, the settlement from the accident meant she didn't have to work if she didn't want to. She thought she'd enjoy something part time, maybe at a bookstore or a library, something to keep her mind stimulated and her hands busy.
Maybe she'd drive out to University of Central Florida and see if she could pick up something out there. Full time employees could take classes at a discounted rate. Not that she needed a discounted rate, but it would be another reason to take classes. She definitely had options, but first she had to be able to sleep at night and function during the day. And it would be nice if she could stop looking over her shoulder, eventually.
Shelby sank onto the chair that matched the couch and loveseat in the den, pulling at a lock of hair caught in the ponytail holder. She still hadn't done anything to her hair, but there was little chance she was going to run into a handsome celebrity between the den and the bathroom. She twisted sideways and kicked her feet up so she was laying across the chair, her feet dangling over one arm, her head over the other.
"Now... well, I guess I figure out how to live. How to become this new person I want to be. Live the life I want to live. Try to deal with all of this... yuck going on inside of me."
"One day at a time, sweetie," Evelyn soothed. "That's the only way it's going to come."
"I know. I just..." Tears began to well, her voice becoming unsteady, her breath quickening. Her chest tightened, matching the swell of emotion. "I still feel so guilty. It didn't have to be Lucas."
"But you know it wasn't something you could have chosen, because you would have chosen differently. So that means it was beyond your control. Right?"
That was logic and logic didn't apply here. Guilt knew no logic or sense. She could use sound reasoning all day, but still wail all night long.
"If I hadn't have insisted that we go back to the house, it never would have happened, and Lucas would be here, and–" Shelby swallowed, stopping abruptly.
Evelyn prodded. "And?"
Memories of that day poured into her mind. For over a year, she'd blocked them out. It was too painful to keep reliving. Surviving was not remembering. Now they flooded relentlessly, without warning. She remembered, more often than she wanted to, the last time she'd seen Lucas.
They'd fought. They were in the car, on the way a meeting at their wedding venue, a site that Lucas he had picked out and that Shelby hated, but she'd had no say in the matter. It was too big, too gaudy, too much show. She had longed for a small, private ceremony, maybe one the press wouldn't pick up and paint her as the woman marrying a man twice her age. He'd hated the implication that she was ashamed to be with him. It wasn't that way at all. Lucas had made a comment, something snide. Angry, Shelby whipped the car around and headed back to the house, threatening to pack her things and leave.
If it wasn't for that pissy fit, they'd have never been on that road. The tragic sequence of events that followed would have never been set in motion. Lucas would still be alive. Maybe not with her, but he'd with his friends and family and all the people who now hated her. She didn't blame them; they had good reason. It was her fault.
Shelby sobbed quietly into the receiver, giving in to the wave of sadness as it washed over and nearly drowned her. When it subsided, she sniffled and managed to sit up, wiping residual tears with the palm of her hand.
"I should try to run into that guy right now, when I look even worse."
Evelyn's hearty laughter on the other end of the line lifted her spirits a little. "Well, honey. It's nearing dinnertime. I better get something on the stove. You take care of yourself. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Get out of the house. Call me if you need me. I love you."
"Love you too, mom," she croaked, and hung up before the tears could start again. She hated the goodbyes.
Jackson
He was tempted to throw everything down and walk out, to head back to LA and sit in his big, empty, lonely house. Between half of the band showing late for rehearsal and the other half bickering with Rod, the 9:00 dinner break could not have come sooner.
Head pounding and nerves shot, Jackson opted to take his break in the car, cool air blowing on his face, smooth jazz on the radio. This was nothing like he was used to. Boy Wonder was never a fairy tale, but the guys were friends. They'd spend all day in the studio or on a set, then hang out all night playing video games, eating and laughing and talking.
Rod’s band was a hodgepodge of musicians, all looking to break out and stand in front, soaking up the spotlight like they were going to be discovered and stolen away to play legit rock, as if the Stones were waiting for them to become available. Duke especially made no secret that he thought he was underpaid, underappreciated and stuck working in the candy ass genre of pop.
The truth, Jackson thought at least, was that pop covered so many different genres-every kind of music crossed over pop... country, rock, blues, alternative, hip hop. And yes, as much as he wanted to create an edgy sound and a new image, Rod Phillips was pop. He wished some musicians wouldn't view it as such a death sentence, but embrace it. You could do whatever you wanted to do and never be ousted from your genre. No one accused a pop artist of being a sellout or trying to appeal to another audience. It was all pop.
The automatic sprinklers embedded in the sprawling emerald green lawn rose from their holes in the ground and began their nightly timed rituals. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, creating a beat off of the rhythm of the chigchigchigchigchig sounds in the background of Wynton Marsalis blowing a sweet horn in his ears.
The hour passed quickly. Jackson climbed out of the car and made his way back into the studio, determined to establish some kind of order and camaraderie among the band, otherwise they not only weren't going to get the new album written, but they weren't going to be recording anything and they definitely wouldn't make it to the tour.
"Alright, guys," he said, barreling into the rehearsal room and stepping onto the makeshift stage, which was nothing more than a platform at the head of the room. He added a take-charge edge to his voice, leveling a serious stare at each of them scattered around the room.
"This bitching stops today. Right now. We have a job to do. That job is to make music, to make waves, to make people sit up and turn it up. I'm here to do that. Scratch that, I'm here to orchestrate that. If you didn't need me, I wouldn't be here, so if you're not here to work with me, pick up your instrument and get out. Those that choose to stay are here to record an album and plan a tour that will knock fans on their asses."
He should get mad more often−all of them, the band and Rod, stared at him, wide eyed like children in trouble. But none of them moved. Jackson nodded, hands on his hips, satisfied he'd made his point.
"Rod." He pointed, and then snapped his fingers to the platform. "Get up here. Bring your guitar. Let's go through verse two of Evil Side of Me with the changes." Rod obeyed, slipping the guitar strap around his neck, poised to play, watching Jackson for the cue.
"Duke." Reluctantly, he stood. Jackson was amazed he didn't check out, but was happy he'd stayed. Duke was a talented guitarist and Jackson had plans for him. "You're too loud and you're coming in too soon, riding all over Rod and competing for sound. Pull it back. You accent the lead. Do your job right and people will hear you. Play the notes and have a good time. Alright?"
Duke nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Contrite, but grudgingly so. "Okay, get up here."
One by one, Jackson placed the band members on the platform, as he'd had them arranged in his mind. Rod was front and center. Cole, the drummer, was back and center. Sam was on Rod's right, Jackson on keyboards and Duke on guitar was to Rod's left. He stepped back, rubbing his chin, chewing his bottom lip, finally making his way back to the platform and stepping behind the multiple sets of keyboards.
"This is our formation. I don't have you here because I'm on an ego trip and I want to be the focus. We all know that's Rod."
A murmur of laughter crossed the room. Jackson relaxed and fell into his new role as the man in charge. "I have you here because I can hear everyone. Everyone can hear me. Everyone can hear each other and you each have a piece of the stage. Everybody shines."
Each man nodded as his eyes traveled the room. There was no tension, only eager anticipation to start playing. "So since everybody shines, that means everybody has to be good, which means we have to rehearse. From the top."
Cole counted off the song with four loud clacks of wooden sticks. A gritty tenor filled the room as Rod broke into the verse, his fingers working the guitar as if it were an extension of him. Jackson backed him, his voice almost echoing Rod's in a sweet harmony. Duke and Sam dropped in perfectly on cue.
They played into their usual 10 second fadeout and then the room was silent, everyone watching Jackson for his reaction. He stood at the keyboard, nodding his head.
"That was good, guys. Real good. Now we're getting somewhere." Not excited, so they wouldn't get to comfortable with making him happy. "We'll go over that one again tomorrow. Let's move on to Can't Get Enough. Come around the keyboards and we'll go over the changes."
Jackson hoped 4 AM rehearsal endings weren't going to become a habit. His body was starting to adjust to the new time zone and 4 AM actually felt like 4 AM tonight. He fell into his car, dreading the long, sleepy drive across Orlando to Winter Park. He was hungry and tired. Home called him, harder than it had ever called before.
Forty five minutes later, he was nearing his neighborhood. He passed the Publix, half a smile crossing his lips, remembering the woman he'd seen there the night before, wondering if he'd ever see her again. She seemed nice, kind of cute. A lot sexy. He was always up for meeting someone new. Maybe she could distract him from the Kim-shaped hole in his heart.
Without even thinking about how creepy it was, he decided he'd keep an eye out for her. Maybe run into her again, accidentally on purpose.
Chapter 7
Shelby
I am so fucking crazy. Crazy!
It was 4:30 am. Shelby was awake and headed to the store. She needed...milk? Right. At 4:30 in the morning. With her washed, blow dried and cascading over her shoulders, casually dressed in tight jeans and a form fitting t-shirt and flip flops, to show off her freshly painted toes. A light dusting of powder, mascara, some lip gloss, her new designer shades and a spritz of body spray.
"Oh my God," she ranted to herself, the bright blue and green Publix sign coming into view ahead. Her heartbeat sped up almost double time. "I look crazy. It's not like I'll see him two days in a row. I don't even know why I'm going. I totally look like I got dolled up to go to the grocery store. For milk! And if he's in there, it's totally going to look like I'm trying to make up for looking like ass yesterday."
Shelby pulled into a spot near the entrance, turned off the car, and stepped inside the brightly lit store, a list in one hand, purse in the other.
"I can't even stand myself right now. Why am I here? I'm so ridiculous."
"Excuse me?" Shelby whipped around, not realizing anyone would be around to hear her. One of the janitors was behind her, dust mop in hand, dark brown eyes quizzically staring at her.
"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head, dumping her purse into a cart and pushing it forward. "Sorry. Nothing."
Shelby quickly marked items off of her list−things she had to come and pick up at this time of morning, with her hair done and makeup on and her best jeans and that shirt she loved that hit her waist just right. She was not, absolutely not, subconsciously looking for him. He wasn't crazy like her, frequenting grocery stores before sunrise, while no one else in the world was awake.
She didn't see him. She didn't expect to, but was still disappointed to not run into him. Despondent, she unloaded the items from her cart and stood in the checkout line, watched the clerk bag them and set the bags in the cart, paid for her groceries and slowly wheeled the cart to her car.
Maybe… somewhere… deep in the recesses of her mind, she thought she might see him again. And maybe she was hoping to make up for the day before, when she looked so terrible. And maybe show him what she looked like when she put some effort into it.
Shelby sighed, popping the trunk.
And then maybe he'd ask her out and they'd have a great time and keep dating and live happily ever after. Or maybe (and more realistically) they'd hook up and have some mind-blowing sex. Blow off some steam. It had been a long, long time since she'd even felt like having sex. She barely remembered what it was like to enjoy it. He oozed sex. She could use some of that, right about now.
