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When your mother has spent her life making your last name famously synonymous with “being a rock groupie” and “being a top-selling Playboy centerfold”, the attention that last name brings—especially from men—is almost always less that well-intentioned.
Even as a teenager, I had to learn that the hard way. I head to learn for myself that the male cashier at the grocery store who recognized me based on my last name, and who was suddenly interested in getting my number, wasnotactually interested in me for me.
He—all of the “he’s” who pulled similar moves—was actually interested inJudy. Or—worse, and ten times grosser—those kinds of guys were interested in trying to getmeinto bed as some sort of perverse “bang the daughter of your favorite rock groupie and playmate” fantasy.
Fuckingick.
Currently, though, I’m using Hendrix for the same reason I didn’t want to name-drop Judy in my interview: because Iwantthis story, but I don’t want him giving it to me because Judy once dated his rhythm guitar player.
Jackson says nothing as the lie hangs in the air.
“My name is Melody Hendrix and I’m a…”
I pause.
Don’t say reporter. Don’t say reporter. Don’t say—
“I’m a reporter.”
Fury ignites behind his eyes. I cringe inside, wincing as he seems to loom even closer to me.
“I’m a reporter, and I work for Ignition Magazine.”
His lips thin.
“Anyway, I’m here because I… I found you!”
I smile expectantly, hoping for some sort of recognition. Or a sentence. A single fucking word. But I get nothing. He just stares down at me like he’s hoping his eyes will turn me to a pile of ash right here on his porch.
“And anyways I am ahugefan—”
A vicious grunting sound rumbles in his chest. I wince, remembering Cliff’s warning.
Wow, you’re off to a great start, idiot.
But I’m out of my element here. I’m in a place I don’t know, with a man who, to be totally honest, scares the shit out of me as much as he ignites a fire in me.
But that’s always been the allure of Jackson Havoc. It’s what made him world-famous. The attraction to the darkness, like the seduction of a blade. That scary but warming look of his is the reason that millions of people flocked to him and his music…like moths to a flame they knew damn well would incinerate them.
But it was justtoo fucking prettya light to stay away from.
Because the hard, cold truth is that Jackson—now as he was back then at the height of his fame—islethallyattractive. Illegally gorgeous.
I take a deep breath, centering myself and trying to conjure up some sort of ability to even speak words.
“I tracked you through a source of mine.”
There’s no way inhellI’m mentioning Judy. It’s best tonevermention Judy, to be honest…let alone the fact I’m related to her. Let alone the fact that she’s mymother.
“Anyway,” I blurt, still going, for some insane reason. Even though the frighteningly gorgeously man glaring down at me is still completely silent.
“Anyway, it brought me to the PO Box at the post office, where they told me it was no longer in service nor was there anyone named Jackson even living here—currently or ever. But when you showed up, the kind lady at the front desk mentionedyouwere the new owner of the PO box, and you might know…”
I’m rambling.Horribly.
I take a deep.
“So, yeah. I’m here because I think the world would love to hear your story. I think the worlddeservesto hear your story, and I think—”
