Home > The Storm (The Storm #3.5)(5)

The Storm (The Storm #3.5)(5)
Author: Samantha Towle

Tru’s eyes snap up to mine. They’re angry and filled with tears. She swipes at them, her lips curling in disgust—at me presumably. I can feel her contempt like a hand around my throat, choking me.

“I honestly don’t know what the hell to do with this, Jake. I mean, I just…I need to get out of here. I need some time to think.” She marches through the kitchen, heading for the door.

As she passes me, I grab her arm, stopping her. “Tru, wait. Please. Just stay and talk to me.”

“No.” She yanks her arm from mine, meeting my stare. Her eyes are laced with venom. “You are the last person I want to talk to right now. I’ve heard enough from you to last me a fucking lifetime.”

I watch her walk out of the kitchen. Then, I hear the front door slam, and her car engine revs a minute later.

And I don’t go after her.

I let her go.

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My cigarette lights the dark around me as I take a drag on it. It’s my sixth cigarette since Tru left a few hours ago.

I’ve had to force myself not to go to where I know she is—at Simone and Denny’s.

Simone is Tru’s best friend. She’s married to one of my best friends and the drummer in my band, Denny.

Of course I know where she is. I always know where Tru is. I have GPS tracking on her cell and car—and not in a creepy way. She knows. It’s because of the accident and the fact that Tru and the kids are prime targets for fans and stalkers because of who I am.

Right now, Dave, my trusted bodyguard, is sitting outside of Denny’s house, watching and making sure she’s okay.

Not that she’s okay. I’m not okay.

But I’m hoping she will be, eventually.

Right now, I’m trying to give her the space she asked for. I know she needs time to think this out. It’s just how Tru is.

And I know Denny doesn’t know about the paternity suit. If he did, he would have called me by now.

I don’t want to keep it from him or Tom Carter, the bassist in my band and another one of my best friends. I got lucky when it came to friends.

Both Tom and Denny deserve to know because this involves Jonny, too, but I just want to talk to Tru and then get this fucking DNA test done before I talk to anyone else about it.

I mean, what’s the point of talking about the what-ifs? Might as well know the outcome and then talk about that, deal with that.

I just…I know this kid isn’t mine.

But…I want him to be Jonny’s. This kid, whose mother is dying, I’m wishing that his father, who also suffered that same fate, is Jonny because the selfish part of me wants a piece of my best friend back.

Is that wrong?

I flick the ash from my cigarette into the makeshift ashtray on the floor between my feet. It’s actually one of Tru’s ceramic bowls that she usually fills with some scented shit. Well, the scented shit is gone, and it’s now filled with ash and cigarette butts.

Although I understand her need to walk out, it doesn’t mean I’m not frustrated and pissed off.

So, yeah, ruining one of her ceramic bowls has made me feel a little better.

There was a time when, if I’d gotten some fucked-up news or something had happened to piss me off, I would have gotten trashed and broken some stuff, caused some damage to make myself feel better.

Now, I get off on fucking up Tru’s shitty little scented bowl.

Pathetic, I know.

I pick up my glass perched beside me on the sun lounger I’m sitting on and take a sip of whiskey.

I don’t really drink or smoke much nowadays. I stopped smoking not long after JJ was born. But fuck if I didn’t need one tonight. So, I pulled out the emergency pack I had kept stashed away, and had at it.

I put the glass down on the floor beside the ashtray before taking another pull on my cigarette. I blow out the smoke and stare out at the flickering lights of LA, wishing for a lot of things.

Wishing for my past to have been different. Wishing for this not to be happening now. Wishing my past wasn’t yet again hurting Tru. Wishing Jonny were still alive.

Music starts to filter through the speakers outside from the internal system we have set up in the house—“Never Tear Us Apart” by INXS. I know Tru is home, and I know she’s talking to me. Music—it’s how we always talk. And I’m taking this song as a good sign.

I glance over my shoulder, and she’s standing in the doorway. She looks just as beautiful, if not more so, as the day she walked back into my life all those years ago.

“You’re smoking,” she says softly.

“Yeah, sorry.” I put the cigarette out in the bowl, pushing it aside with my foot.

“Don’t be sorry. If I smoked, I’d be having one right now.” She looks down at her bare feet, curling her toes in, as she runs her hands down her skirt.

It makes me want to touch her. I need to touch her.

Her eyes lift back to mine, and the ache in them hurts me. “I’m sorry I left earlier. I know I should have stayed and talked. I was just…”


“Yeah.” She blows out a breath.

She’s still standing in the doorway. Too far away.

I need her here.

“Come here.” There’s no argument in my tone.

And there’s no argument from her as she pads toward.

She goes to sit beside me, but I pull her onto my lap. With her legs on either side of my thighs, I band my arms around her waist. Burying my face into her chest, I just breathe her in.

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