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I don’t own Jackson. And it’s even more insane to suggest I had any sort of claim on himten or more years ago.
But just the same, it—his past, that is—sits there sometimes in the back of my mind like a big green lurking dragon.
I hate thinking about a younger Jackson and the God only knows how many women that came before me.
I mean, Ireallyhate thinking about it.
But what turns me from green with jealousy to seething with red rage isn’t the fact a grown, forty-two year old, extremely attractive and famous man had a personal life before I met him.
It’s that I can’t stop fixating on it. That’s what I really hate. That I allow it to get under my skin. That I can’t just let go and let his touch, and his mouth, and his words, and hisgodlydick utterly and completely worship me into pure bliss.
I mean, Ican, and I do get lost in him. But other times, that green flicker of jealousy is back there somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Ready to torment me.
The one upside is, I’ve officially put the “Judy thing” to bed. Yes, there was a minute there where the horrific and nauseating thought that she and Jackson could have had history seeped like poison into my head.
But then, I realized I had the proof that Judy really was completely full of shit in that regard. Not only would I have never stopped hearing about it years ago if she and Jackson had ever been “together”. But also, I would haveseenthe proof right there in our living room.
Judy’s “conquest wall”—the walls of drawers containing little mementos from all the famous musicians she’s had things with. The little drawers with eye-poppingly famous names like Mark Cooper, Leighton James, Brian Cummings, Slade, Tom Roberts…even Will Cates.
But for all the famous names on that wall of drawers, there’s one IknowI’ve never once seen taped onto any of them: Jackson Havoc.
And for once, my mother being a serial liar and completely full of shit is a reason for me to sleep sounder at night.
She never had him. And I hesitate to say he’s “all mine”. But with the past back where it belongs, and the world walled off around us here on our island of escape?
For now, he really is all mine. And life really is perfect.
Until it’s not.
Walls don’t usually just come crashingdown randomly. There are cracks that happen first. A bad foundation. Leaks that weaken the inside of them until all you’re really seeing is the painted veneer over a crumbling center.
It always starts with small cracks.
At first, I don’t even see them. Then I ignore them. Other times, I cover them with more creativity, or more “letting go” and losing myself in the pure ecstasy of his body and his bed.
Slowly but surely, though, some of those cracks just keep getting bigger. And more obvious. Until no amount of orgasm, or song lyrics, or laughing it off when I have to help him physically walk up the stairs at night because he’s too fucked up will cover them anymore.
I grinas I stir the pot of noodles on the stove. Glancing over, I check the timer on my soft-boiled eggs, and then quickly give the tamari a whisk. Then I sit back, my eyes gleaming as I survey the preparation in front of me.
This is going to be awesome.
At first, Jackson just raised a quizzical brow when I mentioned I’d be making us scratch-made ramen.
“You mean like the shit that comes in those little packets for pennies?”
“No, I mean like really good, fancy ramen.”
“Fancy ramen…”
“Yeah, it’s…it’s like a thing, now.”
“But it’s ramen.”
“Yeah, but it’s—”
“Like the little packets with the flavor powder?”
“Yeah, but those taste like shit.”
