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She nods and we walk the short distance to where my driver, Gary, has pulled up to the curb and is holding the door of my black SUV open for us. I help Izzy up and into her car seat, fastening the restraints and making sure she’s properly secured before closing the door. As usual, the second I turn around, I find Gary standing there with the front passenger door held open for me.
I know I should probably act like a proper rich guy with a chauffeur and sit in the back seat, but this just became habit back when Jazz and Piper were younger and it was beyond ridiculous for all three of us to squeeze into the back. Besides, I like being able to see what’s going on out on the road.
I’m not entirely surprised to find that Izzy has nodded off by the time we get home. It’s been a big week for her with five full days of kindergarten, a specialist appointment on Thursday evening and now occupational therapy today. She’s doing really well to keep up with everything as far as I can tell, and her specialist seems to have the same opinion.
Fortunately, her teacher has been very cooperative and willing to work around her needs. I’ll admit, when I learned how young he is I had some serious doubts, but it’s been over a month now since school actually started and close to two months since we met Deacon and started figuring out a plan, and in that time I’ve been nothing but impressed. It’s clear he’s never taught a kid like Izzy before, and for someone else that would be an indisputable black mark against them. But Deacon has somehow turned it into a good thing, because it’s made him completely open and flexible, without any biases formed from past experience.
I manage to get Izzy out of her car seat without waking her up. She’ll be even more worn out after Jazz’s visit this afternoon, so an extra half hour or so now will be helpful.
“Oh, did OT wear her out?” Kit asks me in a soft voice as I carry Izzy past the downstairs living room, where my godsend of a nanny is currently folding clean laundry.
“I think the whole week wore here out,” I murmur back. “First week without any half-days.”
I make my way to the stairs and take them slowly, making sure not to jostle my sleeping daughter.
“Ah, fuck,” I murmur, as I get to the top step and almost go flying over the baby gate. I don’t usually have it closed during the day but I must have forgotten to prop it open this morning. With Izzy’s bedroom the first one off the landing, I get incredibly anxious about the possibility of her getting up in the middle of the night for some reason and tumbling down the stairs after making a wrong turn. Hence the gate. Admittedly, the risk is low considering she’s not night trained yet, but I still prefer to be careful.
Adjusting my hold of her, I manage to unfasten the gate and push it open, letting us onto the landing. Then I walk the short distance to her room and carefully set her on her bed. She fusses a little when I remove her shoes, but doesn’t wake.
***
“You look tired,” I observe as Jazz takes a seat on one of the stools at the island counter. He bears a striking resemblance to myself in my youth, with raven-dark hair, strong features, and a lean frame. His eyes are his mother’s, however, and I can never get enough of the sight of them.
Jazz rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms up above his head, his mouth forming a wide yawn. “Yeah, it was a late one. The guy I hooked up with was so fucking needy. Not in a submissive way, just really eager for cock,” he explains, making me regret asking the question. “Don’t get me wrong, I love topping, but it really takes it out of you. I’m not sure if it’s really worth it unless the guy’s up for being totally dominated.”
I give an exasperated shake of my head and turn my attention back to the salad I was making. “Jazz, we’ve talked about this. I really don’t need to hear the details of your sex life.”
It’s not as though I haven’t known for a while that my son is…rather active. But I certainly don’t need it shoved right in my face. And yes, I would feel the same way if he were straight. He’s my son, I taught him what his penis was when he was a toddler; I sure as hell don’t need to know what he does with it now.
“Right…prude alert,” he says in a sardonic tone.
“Normal personalert,” I shoot back.
“Where’s Izzy, anyway?”
“He asksafterregaling his father with every detail of last night’s conquest.”
Jazz scoffs. “That was hardlyeverydetail. I didn’t even mention the—”
“She’s in the playroom with Kit,” I say, cutting him off before he can scar my brain any further. “She wants you to take her to the park after lunch.”
He nods. “Yeah, I can do that. We’ll go on the swings.”
I smile to myself as I finish up with the salad. Jazz definitely knows the way to his sister’s heart.
I set the salad aside and check on the chicken I have baking in the oven. It all looks good, so I grab a couple beers from the fridge and snap their caps off before sliding one across the island to Jazz. I feel a lot less irresponsible sharing a beer with him since he turned twenty-one earlier in the year, but considering he’s technically owned a bar since he was twelve the ship probably sailed a while ago.
Jazz’s phone goes off and he tugs it from his pocket, scowling at the screen.
“Something wrong?”
“Star wants me to go out to LA and meet with these record label guys she knows,” he grumbles, his expression making him look as though he’s been asked to undergo surgery without anesthesia.
“And you don’t want to go?” I probe gently, aware that an outburst is likely forthcoming. Jazz has never been one to hold back. Whether it be his opinions, his emotions, or his thoughts; everything is just full steam ahead.
“Of course I don’t want to go,” he cries, throwing up his hands. “Now she’s saying just come for a visit and forget about the label meetings. But you know once I’m out there she’ll find some way to rope me into it.”
For most musicians with Jazz’s level of talent, getting a sit-down with a single label exec, let alone several, would be a dream come true. But Jazz only ever had one dream of playing professionally and it was shattered when he broke his hand in the car accident that killed his mother and completely broke our world. He went from dreaming of being a classical pianist to not even wanting to touch a piano. It wasn’t until Izzy was born and he learned about musical therapy that he finally sat down at one again.
