ABOUT SAME TIME NEXT WEEK
He'd barely been home ten minutes before the phone started ringing and the doorbell chimed, turning what was planned to be a quiet first night at home into an impromptu party that ran entirely too late.
Much earlier than he wold have liked, Jackson forced himself awake. He stared at the wall as he sat on the edge of the bed, half-listening to morning show banter.
"In today's Celebrity Dirt Alert, Rod Phillips appears to have brought a stray home from his recent trip to LA."
"Ooh, Jill…"
"Well, not a girl, though that would not surprise me.”
“You almost broke some hearts. Do we know who it is?”
“None other than hometown sweetheart Jackson Sweeney! A source says the former lead singer of world famous pop vocal group Boy Wonder has moved back to Orlando to work on Rod Phillips Band’s new album and upcoming world tour."
"That's really good news for Jackson. He's been off the scene for a minute."
"Yeah, well there was that big breakup with that model… what was her name?"
“Kim,” Jackson whispered, a pang shooting through his chest. “Kim Valentine. I loved her.'“
"Kim. And she destroyed him when she left. He hasn't been right since.”
“I agree. He's been bloated from all the drinking, he’s been partying with a rough Hollywood crowd. The last pictures I saw of him? Bro looked a mess—"
The radio alarm clock shattered against the wall. Jackson stared at the mess, shocked at his outburst. His head pounded — an aching reminder of last night’s revelry gone overboard. He stood up, his legs stiff and uncooperative, groaning as he stepped over the debris.
"Guess I'll add 'replace clock' to my list of shit to do today," he mumbled, heading for the shower.
By 4PM, Jackson was more than ready for music time. He shuffled up the winding sidewalk to an addition that was almost as large as the house next to it. He walked past the lounges, nodding to Sam, a heavyset saxophonist that Rod had added to the band before the last tour.
"Ay, Jackson! You not gonna speak, man?"
Jackson doubled back, almost smiling. He should have known he couldn’t sneak past Sam. A ball game was on the TV and two open cans of beer sat on the table. Duke appeared to be passed out on half of the couch, a hat covering his face. Sam took up the other half, an arm casually laid across the top of the cushions.
"Hey, Sam. How's the new baby?"
"Got her all shined up.” He grinned. "She's ready for work." The only baby in Sam’s life, of course, was a shiny new tenor saxophone.
"Sounds good. I've got some changes for 'Evil Side of Me' and 'Can't Get Enough'. A slower tempo will give that new sax a chance to shine."
Duke let out a long snore, loud enough to compete with the sound of the TV. Both men stared in his direction, gave each other a look and a shrug, and laughed.
“I don’t know how you put up with that. I can’t imagine him on a tour bus.”
“You tune it out, after a while. You can pretty much live your life around him. He sleeps through everything.”
“Thankfully, so do I.”
Jackson ducked out of the room and ambled further down the hall toward Rod’s office. It was almost as big as the recording room and more decadent than any of the others. Rod could, and sometimes did live there.
One side was every cubicle worker’s dream—spacious wood desk with matching credenza, leather executive chair, multi-line phone system, and carpet that gave the illusion of walking on air.
The other side of the room satisfied Rod’s sleep all day, party all night side. A mini-bar was built into one wall, alongside a soda dispenser and one of those expensive, shiny, silver coffee machines with all the buttons and knobs that somehow, if you pressed the right combination, would give you a latte or a cappuccino, or some fancy coffee thing. Rod didn’t even drink coffee, but Rod liked girls and girls liked coffee and girls loved that machine.
They also loved the long sofa that pulled out into a queen size bed. Few actually made it past the studio and into the private living quarters. Rod liked to say he never learned their names because he wouldn’t know them long enough to care.
Rod’s feet were propped up on a corner of the desk, showing off tanned, muscular legs. His mobile phone was tucked between an ear and a shoulder while he flipped through a stack of pages. His stare was intense, like he was in the middle of an important conversation, so Jackson hadn’t intended to stop and talk. The sooner he got to his room, the sooner he could get to work.
“Yeah, hold on one second,” Rod said, covering the mouthpiece with his palm. “Jackson! Hang out for a second. I’m about off this call.” He pointed toward one of the chairs in front of the desk and went back to his conversation.
Jackson ambled into the room and plopped into a chair, probably looking every ounce as bored as he actually was.
“Listen, I don't care what the hell you thought,” said Rod, resuming his call. “We agreed on a three percent commission. I’m seeing seven percent all over this contract. I mean… maybe you’re not trying to fuck me over, right? Maybe the intern you’re screwing forgot to search and replace the right terms. I don’t know, man. Either way, I’ll be goddamned if I’m giving up an extra four percent.”
As Rod continued his heated conversation, movement near the mini-bar caught Jackson's eye. A young woman, probably in her early twenties, was fiddling with the coffee machine. She glanced over, then did a double-take, her eyes popping wide in recognition.
"Oh shit!" she whispered, abandoning her drink. "Jackson Sweeney! Holy shit!!"
Jackson shifted uncomfortably, offering a weak smile. "That's me."
"Oh… my God!” She gushed. “My mom still plays your music! She’s is going to freak when she finds out I met you! Can I, um, can I get an autograph? Selfie?”
Jackson's jaw clenched. Her mother? "I, uh... sure, I guess," he mumbled, not moving from his chair.
She snatched up her purse and rifled through it, producing a mobile phone. Then she crouched near his chair and squeezed next to him, smashing her cheek against his. "Smile!"
Jackson managed a half—hearted grin as she snapped several photos.
"This is so cool!" she gushed. "Are you working on new stuff? With Rod? Or is maybe Rod writing for a Boy Wonder album?”
Before Jackson could respond, Rod ended his call. "Kelsey, sweetheart," he said. "Be less of a pest. I need a second with Jackson."
The young woman nodded, still beaming before ducking out of the room, coffee forgotten.
Jackson heaved a relieved breath. “She said her mom is a fan. I guess I’m officially easy listening.”
Rod chuckled. "It’s better than never being recognized, or nobody knowing your name."
“Is it?” Jackson chuckled, then nodded his head toward the pages spread across Rod’s desk. “Rough day?
“Same old shit. Someone's always trying to get over," he explained. He picked up the stack of pages and tossed them to the edge of the desk. "I'll endorse anything; I don't care. Put my name on it, make some money. My agent gets a cut of that, right? Cool...but when that weasel tries to take twenty five grand more than his contract says he gets?"
Rod shook his head. "I’m tempted to nix this thing right here and now,” he threatened, though they both knew he wouldn’t. Rod liked to see his name on everything. And Rod liked money. He would get his way.
He inhaled a deep breath and fanned his fingers out, releasing the bad energy. “So. How we doin’? You feeling any better about all this?"
"I'm... alright. Got some good stuff in mind. I want to run it through first, hear how it sounds in real life."
Rod nodded, understanding. "Good. I'm itching to hit the studio, so get to work."
Finally in his writing space – a small, dimly lit room outfitted with a table, chairs, and writing supplies – Jackson felt at home. He started humming, reworking one of Rod's biggest hits with a ribbon of blues, giving it more soul and depth.
The band had finally called it a night at 4 AM. Duke stretched out on the futon, hat over his face, snoring up a storm. He would eventually wake up and drive himself home or he’d still be there the next day when they arrived.
Jackson was hungry, but like most big little cities, Orlando had nothing open that appealed to him. Winter Park, a ritzy enclave, had even less. LA had places that stayed open all night. He could go down to Kitchen24 and get a burger right this minute, if he was in LA.
But he wasn’t. Even the bars were closed and the only places open served shit food that he wasn’t in the mood to eat.
Jackson wandered aimlessly. The drive felt hollow without Kim at home, having waited up for him because she didn’t like to sleep without him. She would offer to make one of her gourmet sandwiches before they climbed the stairs and crawled into bed to please each other before before fatigue took over.
More important than Kim not being there, there was no food there.
He could buy food. It was the perfect time—he was less likely to run into a gaggle of screaming girls. The most he’d get was a smile and a double take from the clerk that rang up his groceries.
Yeah. Food would be a good idea.