Same Time Next Week (Ch 2)
ABOUT SAME TIME NEXT WEEK
Jackson Sweeney smiled up into a face that was kind but weathered. She'd done her best to enhance 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.
"I'm good, thanks," he said, declining a drink order by 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, bending at the knee to whisper to Duke, Rod's guitarist. Duke was drunk when he boarded the plane. He ordered another drink.
Jackson turned in his seat, cushioned by soft, buttery leather. Red-rimmed eyes drifted across the luxurious cabin of the private jet with its plush seats, shiny mahogany paneling and opulent decor. He felt out of place, though he remembered almost fondly the days when a private jet was a normal and expected mode of transportation. As a member of the award-winning group Boy Wonder, they'd become too famous to fly commercial. Even if they could board a flight without a commotion, they wouldn't 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.
As well, the full bar, the personal attendant in the shortest, tightest uniform possible, the genuine leather seats, the flat screen TVs. He nodded his head, sinking into memories.
As a child star on Kid TV, 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 Boy Wonder. For ten years, they ruled the charts and the hearts. Then, as suddenly as it began, the days of harmonious pop and intricate choreography in color-coordinated clothing ran out.
One day, Jackson was more famous and wealthy than he'd ever imagined. 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.
After nine grueling years and two successful solo albums, he no longer craved the limelight, constantly tempted by the trappings of fame. Instead, he poured his heart and soul into writing and producing, finding solace in the confines of his studio. His skills were highly sought after by record labels and artists alike, solidifying his status as a musical powerhouse. And he couldn't help but admit to himself that he was damn good at it.
He languished in LA where the air was thick with smog and the sticky-sweet layer of sleaze oozed all over the industry. Why not just retire from music and spend his days ordering Mai Tais from cute waitresses in skimpy clothing? He could be on an island baking in the sun, his mind composing songs but not letting his fingers write them down.
Kim was why. He'd stuck around for her.
A year ago, almost to the day, bitter laughter had burned in his throat while he read the letter she left in an envelope leaning up against, ironically, a framed photo of the two of them.
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 to piss away in a drunken stupor. He was becoming a statistic and quickly gaining an unbecoming reputation.
A phone call had saved his life.
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. It was a security blanket that held everything he needed–his tunes and his work. He pulled out both, shoving ear buds into his ears and pulling up a music app. 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.
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 boy band and a has-been pop star.
Rod had begged. "You're the only guy I want for this job. You did my first hit—remember the writing sessions? We could be that team again."
Jackson 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 live that life 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 chips and silver candy wrappers 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.
Rod offered a change of pace and scenery, something to do to take his mind off of her. "You've got to get back in the game, man," he'd said, his brown eyes uncharacteristically earnest. "Drowning in a bottle won't bring Kim 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 I know."
Muggy, thick air invaded the aircraft as soon as the cabin doors opened and the staircase was lowered. Leather bag on one shoulder, he deplaned and walked quickly to one of five waiting vehicles on the private airstrip. Rod and his band would no doubt head to Rod's mansion to continue the party with the lucky ladies chosen to hang out with the band.
"Should come by, man," Rod slurred at him, nodding his head toward a stretch Hummer. "Just for a few. Take the edge off."
Jackson shook his head. He had other plans which included a shower, a hot meal and a bed. "Ride's already here. Get some sleep. I need you awake and sober for rehearsal tomorrow."
Beyond the fleet of luxury vehicles, a rusty passenger van huffed. The driver side door opened and a lanky man stepped out. Wiry, jet black hair fluffed into an afro in response to the humidity. He slid the van door open, nodding at Jackson as he grabbed his bags and tossed both into the back seat. The van was old, but at least the A/C worked. Jackson climbed into the passenger seat and snapped the belt over his lap.
"Thanks for the ride. Were you waiting long?"
Never a man of many words, his friend simply uttered, "Nope." Ray put the van in drive and pulled away from the airstrip.