The Mighty Storm

Chapter Four




“Holy shit,” Jake exclaims, his lips shaping into a heart-breaking smile as he takes another step closer to me. “When Stuart said the name of the interviewer was Trudy Bennett, I just thought – there can’t be that many Trudy Bennett’s here in the UK can there? – I mean there probably is but –” He laughs. Surprising to me, he sounds a little nervous.
“But then I just thought it would be too much of a coincidence for it to be you … and shit … here you are.”
“Here I am.” Still echoing, sounding like some lame f*cking parrot.
He comes over to me. Each stride he takes closer, my heart whams against my ribcage.
Then he stops in front of me, only inches away.
Holy crap, he’s even more beautiful close up. And he’s so much taller now than I remember, but then he was fourteen the last time I saw him in the flesh. He looks even better than he does on TV.
Wow, he really has grown up.
He’s smells like of a mixture of cigarettes, aftershave, and mint. It’s a surprisingly alluring smell, and it’s doing all kinds of funny things to me.
“It’s been what – eleven years?” he says, his voice quieter now.
“Twelve.” I swallow.
“Twelve. Christ, yeah, right.” He runs his hand through his hair. “You look different ... but the same – you know,” he shrugs.
“I know,” I smile. “You look different too.” I gesture to the tattoos on his arms.
He grins down at them, then back at me.
“But still the same.” I point my finger to the freckles on his nose.
Surprised by how much my fingers are itching to touch him, I draw my hand back.
He rubs his hand over his nose. “Yeah, no getting rid of them.”
“I always liked them.”
“Yeah, but you liked the Care Bears, Tru.”
I flush. I can’t believe he remembers that.
It’s crazy that he, Jake Wethers, rock god extraordinaire, remembers that I liked the Care Bears when I was little.
“You remember that, huh?” I murmur, cheeks flaming.
“I remember a lot,” he grins, devilishly. “Come on let’s sit down.”
He grabs hold of my hand. A jolt of electricity fires up my arm, searing into me. His hand is so rough, his fingers calloused. Must come from his years of playing the guitar.
Jake leads me over to the plush sofa and sits down, letting go of my hand. My hand instantly feels cold.
I clutch hold of my bag and sit down beside him.
He turns his body toward me, resting his foot up onto his thigh. It’s only then I realise his feet are bare.
Seriously, what is it about men in jeans and bare feet which is so totally hot?
I take my bag off my shoulder and put it to the floor.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.
I shift my legs toward him, turning my body slightly to face him. His eyes are already on my face.
I flush under his stare. “Water would be great, thanks.”
I could actually do with a neat vodka right now to calm my nerves, my hangover suddenly disappearing. But it’s 10am, and Jake is a recovering alcoholic.
“Water? You sure you don’t want orange juice or something?”
I shake my head. “Water’s fine.”
“Stuart!” Jake yells, making me jump a little.
Stuart appears a few seconds later through a door to the right of us.
Was he standing by the door waiting or something? Actually it’s only now I realise I didn’t even see him leaving before. The guy’s pretty stealthy.
“Can you get Tru a glass of water and I’ll have an orange juice, please,” Jake says to him.
Tru.
I love how his voice sounds when he says my name. It’s giving me the warm and fuzzies.
Stuart nods, smiling at me, then disappears off again.
I can see Jake’s leg jigging in my eye line. I have the urge to reach over and put my hand on his leg settling him, but I don’t, obviously.
“So this is a little crazy, huh?” he murmurs.
“Hmm. A little.” I press my lips together in a small smile.
Actually, I was thinking more like … surreal, off the charts.
A silence falls between us.
Wow, twelve years apart and I’m just full of conversation, aren’t I?
It’s weird but I just can’t seem to find a thing to say to him, and I had all yesterday to prepare. I’ve just thrust myself upon him and he’s doing just fine in the talking department.
But then he was better with people than I was. Hence his success, I guess. Well that and his ability to sing, and of course his looks. His gorgeous, lovely face, and his toned, tight body …
“So how have you been?” he asks me.
“Good. Great. I’m a music journalist now, obviously…” I trail off.
“You always were a good writer,” he says.
“I was?”
I didn’t even know he thought that.
“Yeah, those stories you used to make up when we were little, and then you used to make me sit and listen while you read them back to me,” he chuckles, eyes shining with the memory.
I feel my face go bright red. “Oh God,” I groan, embarrassed. “I was so lame.”
He laughs again, louder this time. “You were five, Tru. I think we can forgive the lame.” He drags his fingers through his hair. “And of course you always loved music so it makes sense the two went together,” he adds.
My heart suddenly feels all warm and squishy. He remembers so much more than I thought he would.
“You still play the piano?” he asks.
“No. I stopped–”
I stopped playing after you left.
“I just, um, haven’t played in a long time. I fell out of it, you know. Well obviously you don’t know.” I gesture to the guitar propped up against the far wall.
He smiles. Stuart reappears with our drinks.
“Thank you,” I say as Stuart hands me my glass of water.
“Anything else?” Stuart asks Jake.
Jake looks at me. I shake my head.
“No, we’re good thanks.”
Stuart closes the door when he leaves. Leaving Jake and me alone again.
I sneak a look at him as he has a drink of his juice. It’s so weird, he’s Jake but not Jake.
And I don’t know why, but I feel so completely uncomfortable and so completely at home in his presence. It’s one of the most confusing feelings I’ve ever had.
I take a sip of my water. It’s ice cold and welcomingly refreshing.
“So I’d ask how you’re doing but …” I gesture around at the plush hotel room, as I put my glass down on the table in front of us.
“Yeah.” He laughs. It sounds a little forced. He rubs his hand over the scar on his chin, I notice. “I’m great,” he shrugs, smiling and leans forward, putting his juice on the table. I watch the muscles in his arm stretch and tense with his movement.
He doesn’t sit back, he stays sitting forward, arms resting on his thighs, looking straight ahead.
He seems a little uncomfortable now and I instantly regret my words.
How stupid could I be?
He’s not long out of rehab. His best friend died a little over a year ago. Of course he’s not okay. I don’t think all the money and nice hotel rooms in the world could make that okay.
I couldn’t have been more insensitive if I’d tried. I bet he thinks I’m a complete idiot now.
“I’ve followed your music career,” I say in a bright, but too loud voice, just for want of a better thing to say.
“You have?” He turns his head looking at me surprised.
“Of course I have,” I smile. “Music is my job.” His face falls and instantly I know I’ve done it again. “But that’s not the only reason,” I hastily add. “I wanted to see how you were doing. And you’ve just achieved so much. I was really proud watching you on TV and reading the articles about your music, and when you set up your own label – I was like, ‘Wow’ … and I’ve bought all your albums, of course. And they’re really brilliant.” I’m babbling. Someone stop me, please.
He’s staring at me again, but there’s something different in his eyes this time.
“Why didn’t you get in touch with me, Tru?”
His question throws me. I stare at him confused.
Why didn’t I get in touch with him? He was the one who stopped calling me. Stopped writing. Ignored my letters.
And I didn’t know where he was until he became famous, and then it’s not like I could get anywhere near him even if I’d wanted to.
I mean of course I wanted to but, I just couldn’t.
“Um…” My mouth’s gone dry. “You’re not exactly easy to get in touch with – Mr Famous Rock Star.” I try to come off as light-hearted, but even I can hear the edge to my voice.
“Yeah, that’s me. One of the most accessible, inaccessible people on the planet.” His stare is hard on me.
Have I pissed him off or something?
And now I just feel totally uncomfortable, because if anyone should be pissed off it’s me. He stopped contact with me.
I feel a sudden rush of unexplained anger toward him and have the urge to yell at him. I want to ask why he never got in touch with me. He could have found me so easily.
He was the one that stopped the contact, not me, so he should have been the one to get in touch.
I want to know why he just disappeared off the face of the planet, and didn’t rock back up until he was sitting in my TV.
But I don’t ask any of those things. Fear is keeping my mouth shut. I have half-an-hour max with him and the last thing I want to do is waste it arguing about things that happened twelve years ago, or f*ck this interview up – it’s way too important to Vicky, and the magazine as a whole.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket and gets one out. He puts it between his lips, holding a lighter up, he pauses.
“Do you smoke?” he asks, cigarette still perched between his lips.
“No.”
“Good,” he replies.
Hypocrite, I think.
“You mind if I do?”
“No.”
He lights his cigarette, dropping the pack and lighter onto the table and takes a long drag.
I watch the smoke trickle out of his mouth and billow up into the air.
He really does have nice lips.
My phone starts to sing a text in my bag. Shit, I forgot to turn it off. It’s unprofessional of me to have it on in an interview.
Jake’s eyes follow mine down to my bag.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I get my phone, silencing it. “It might be my boss.”
It’s not. It’s Will asking how my day is going and that he misses me, and is looking forward to seeing me tonight. He really is sweet.
“Adele?” Jake grins, inferring to the tune just playing on my phone.
“I like her,” I respond defensively.
“Oh, me too.” He nods. “She’s a nice girl. I just figured from what I remember of you, I’d have been hearing the Stones playing on your phone.”
“Yeah, well I’ve changed a lot since you knew me.” That actually came out a lot sharper than I meant.
Avoiding his eyes, I turn my phone off, drop it in my bag and, pull out my notebook and pen, ready to get this interview started.
I have got my Dictaphone with me. But right now, I need something to concentrate on, something to do with my hands and writing seems like as good as anything, and my questions are all in here anyway.
When I look up, Jake’s eyes are on my notepad. They lift to meet with mine. For a moment, I think I see disappointment there.
“So, I should get started with the interview – I’m sure you’re really busy and I don’t want to keep you for longer than necessary.”
“You’re not keeping me.” His tone is dry. He takes a long, drag of his cigarette. “And I’m not busy today. My schedule is clear.”
“Oh. You haven’t got any other interviews after mine?”
A smile flickers over his face. “Well I did have … consider them cancelled.”
“No! Don’t do that on my account.” My voice shoots out.
I know how hard it must have been for those journalists to get this interview with him. It seems to have cost Vicky dearly from the reaction I got yesterday when I probed her about it. But I do like the fact he would do that for me.
I like it a lot.
His face darkens, prompting me to add, “I don’t mean I’m not happy to see you, of course I am, and would love to talk old times with you, but I don’t want others to miss out on a great opportunity because of me.”
“A great opportunity?” he smirks.
I shrug. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Look Tru.” He turns his body toward me. “I haven’t seen you for twelve years. The last thing I want to do right now is talk business with you, or anyone else for that matter. I want to know all about you – what you’ve been doing since I last saw you.” He looks at me curiously. His blue eyes piercing intrusively into mine.
A shiver runs through me.
“Not much,” I shrug, looking down.
“I’m sure you’ve done a lot more than ‘not much’.” His tone is surprisingly firm.
He seems so much more forceful than he used to be. But then of course, he was teenager back then. He’s a man now.
A very rich and very famous man.
And I instantly feel intimidated in a whole other way.
“What did I do after you left Manchester?” I shrug, looking up at him. “I lived my life, I finished school.” My voice suddenly sounds a little bitter, it surprises even me.
“How was it?” His face stays impassive, eyes trained on me.
“School? It was school. A little lonely after you left, but I got through it.”
That was a dig meant to hurt him. But if it does, then it doesn’t show on his face.
His just continues to stare impassively at me, and I’m starting to squirm under his heavy gaze.
“You still see anyone from school?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “No, I’m friends with a couple of people on Facebook but that’s about it. What about you?” I ask.
I’ve always wondered if he kept in touch with anyone else; not that he had many other friends aside from me, after he binned me off that was.
He laughs. “No. Then what did you do after school?”
“Moved here to go to uni. I got my degree in journalism. Then I landed a job at Etiquette, the magazine I work for, and I’ve worked there ever since.”
“Cool.” Another drag of his cigarette. “You’re not married.” His words come out with the smoke, and I see his eyes flicker to my left hand.
“No.”
“Boyfriend?” He takes another drag, then leans over and stubs his cigarette out in the waiting ashtray.
My heart halts. I don’t know why but I have the sudden urge to not want to tell him about Will.
“Yes,” I say slowly.
“Live together?”
“No.” This seems a little personal and a lot grilling. Why is he so interested? “I live with my flat mate Simone in Camden.”
His face stays impassive. “How long have you been with the boyfriend?”
“His name is Will, and we’ve been together for two years.”
“And what does Will do for a living?”
Why is he suddenly so interested in Will?
“He’s an investment banker.”
“Smart guy.” I can’t actually tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.
“He is.” I nod. “He’s very smart – top of his class at uni and he’s climbing the ladder at work very quickly.”
I don’t know why but I suddenly feel the urge to needle him with Will and how great he is.
Seeing as though Jake is a rich mega star, I don’t want to seem so left behind I guess, even though all I can sell myself with, is Will.
Jake gets another cigarette out of his pack and lights it up.
Wow, he smokes a lot.
I curl my fingers around the edge of my notebook.
The atmosphere has shifted, and I’m not entirely sure where to. And I suddenly just want to get out of here. I want to get this interview done, so I can leave.
He’s not the Jake I remember. Or the Jake from the papers. I‘m not actually sure who this Jake is that’s sitting before me.
I unclip my pen from my notebook, and open it up to the page where my prepared questions are.
“It’s been really nice catching up with you, Jake, but I really should get to the interview - especially if I want to keep my job.” I try to keep my tone professional and add a smile for good measure.
Not that Vicky would ever fire me, well I hope she wouldn’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“You won’t get fired.”
“You sound pretty confident of that.” I force a little laugh out.
“I am.”
He takes another long drag of his cigarette, eyes fixed on mine.
Looking away, I shift nervously in my seat.
“You okay?” he asks. “You seem a little uncomfortable.”
Still as direct as ever. That obviously hasn’t changed obviously.
“Of course I’m not uncomfortable.”
Yes, I am. I’m a little intimidated by you and confused by your questions, and flustered and ready to leave to be honest.
“I just need to–”
“Do your job.” He finishes for me. “Okay, go ahead, ask me anything. I’m all yours Tru, for the next thirty minutes.” He glances at his expensive watch, then leans back against the sofa, putting one arm to rest on the back and smiles at me. It’s a smile with something behind it. A cheeky kind of smile.
And it doesn’t relax me at all. Not one single bit. If anything it makes me even more nervous.
Putting the end of my pen in my mouth, I glance down at my first question, but now it just seems so lame and I feel embarrassed. I’ve done so many interviews in my time, but I can honestly say this is my hardest to date. Maybe it’s because I know … knew him so well.
I know his eyes are still on me, I can feel them, and a heat is fast rising up my neck.
I get my water from the table, have a drink of it, put it down and without looking at him, say, “It’s been said in the past that you’re a perfectionist when it comes to your work – your music, and because of that you can be … at times, difficult to work with. Do you agree with that? Do you consider yourself a perfectionist?”
The question was actually fourth on my list, but I decide to go straight in with the question that may possibly piss him off first. I’m just in that kind of mood now.
I look over at him and I can see the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. He actually looks impressed. And for a moment, I wonder what he was expecting me to ask him.
“People don’t work with me, Tru, they work for me. And the guys in my band, the ones who matter, don’t seem to have a problem with the way I run things.”
Wow, arrogant much? And kind of hot.
Crap.
“But to answer your question,” he continues. “I want my music and my label to be the best it can be. Currently it is, and I intend to keep it that way, so if I have to bust a few balls and have myself labelled as a complete shit to work for, or a ‘perfectionist’,” he air quotes, “to keep me, my band and my label at the top of its game, then yeah, call me a perfectionist. I’ve been called worse.” He grins.
And it travels all the way through me. I have to press my knees together to stop my legs from trembling.
I scribble down the last of his answer quickly, and clear my throat. “The general feeling and what people are saying, is that ‘Creed’ is your most chart-friendly album to-date, do you agree with that?”
“Do you?”
Eh?
“Me?”
“Yes. I’m assuming you’ve listened to the album.”
He’s testing me.
“Of course I have … and … yes, I agree with the general consensus. I think that a lot of the songs are holding a softer tone than your previous albums. Especially ‘Damned’ and ‘Sooner’.”
Ha, suck on that!
“Good. Then then the point of the album is being received.” He smiles, and I feel a little lost.
What?
Okay, recover yourself Tru.
“So tell me – what would you be doing right now if you weren't talking to me?”
“I’d be catching up with an old friend.”
Oh.
“Um…” I stumble, caught totally off guard, yet again. “Okay … it’s been a while since you toured, are you looking forward to getting back on the road and playing live again?”
He sits forward, closer to me. I have the urge to lean back, but I don’t, instead I cross my legs in front of me, feeling like they could somehow protect me from whatever answer, or quite possibly question, he has ready to throw at me.
He was always smart when we were kids, and so quick, but this grown-up Jake is like a snake in a stallions clothing.
He most certainly does not come across as the womanizing, drinking, drug addicted Jake the press claim him to be. Or even like a man who just got of rehab a little over four weeks ago.
He seems in control. Or maybe this is just what sober Jake is like.
His eyes flicker down to my bare legs, quickly travelling up them and back up to my face.
And there’s the womanizer in him.
“Playing live is what I love to do, it’s what I live to do … and I have a feeling this tour is going to be a very interesting one – probably my most interesting to date.”
“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”
I’m curious now, if anything I thought this tour would be hard for him with Jonny gone. Especially, considering what happened in Japan.
He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve just had a recent addition to my team and I know for sure she’ll make things different, interesting … better.”
She?
Maybe he’s got a girlfriend nowadays. But then he did say his team, I’m sure he doesn’t screw the staff – actually no he probably does.
“And this new addition, I’m taking it she’s not new a band member?”
He shakes his head, lips pressed together.
“So she’s part of the team putting the tour together?”
“I put the tour together.”
“Right. So she’s…?”
“Let’s say she does … PR.”
Okay … I decide to move on from there seeing as though he’s not keen to expand on the mystery woman who’s going to make his tour his most successful to date.
“So tell me about your personal favorites on the album and where the inspiration for them came from?”
Then I see the spark in his eye, and I know I’ve caught him with his music, the one thing he truly loves, and I’m reminded of that boy I loved all those years ago.
It makes my heart ache a little.
Forcing myself to focus, not wanting to miss a word he says, I start to write quickly trying to catch up as his enthusiastic words start to spill out.
And that’s how it is for the next thirty minutes. Question after question, I listen to him come more and more to life as he talks about his music; just like the old Jake I knew in so many ways.
It makes me miss him, in the oddest way, even though he’s sitting right here before me.
I keep all the questions music based. I don’t ask any of the questions I had lined up about Jonny Creed’s death, how it affected him or his time in rehab or about his personal life. It just wouldn’t feel in line with the whole vibe of the interview, and I don’t want to spoil the obvious pick-up in his mood, and I’ve got a feeling he wouldn’t answer them anyway.
To be honest I’m surprised I wasn’t vetted by Stuart on what I could and couldn’t ask Jake when I first arrived. That’s how it usually works with celebrities. Especially ones as high profile as Jake.
But then I get the distinct impression that Jake doesn’t play by the rule book in anything – and that any vetting to be done – he does himself.
I finish shorthand scribbling down his last answer and then close my note pad and put it back in my bag.
“Thank you,” I say.
“It’s been really good to see you, Tru.”
“You too.”
I feel a sudden lump in my throat and I realise, even though half an hour ago I felt like bolting, now, I don’t want to leave him. The thought of not seeing him again is constricting my heart in the weirdest kind of way.
Crazy, I know.
I reach down and pick my bag up, and stand. Jake follows suit, standing beside me.
I’m not really sure what to do now.
Do I shake his hand, or hug him, or what?
“Did you bring a coat?” he asks.
“It’s in my bag.” I turn to him. He looks down at me with his crystal clear blue eyes. “Thank you again for the interview. It was great.”
“You don’t have to thank me; I’d do an interview for you anytime.”
“I might hold you to that,” I laugh.
“Do,” he says. Not a trace of humour in his voice.
I suddenly feel unsteady. I put my bag strap onto my shoulder, holding my bag to me for support. “Thanks again for your time,” I smile and start to walk toward the door, my legs feeling like lead.
“So you’re heading back to work now?” Jake asks following behind me.
“Yes.”
“Do you need a ride? I can get Stuart to drive you.”
I feel a smart of disappointment. I actually thought he was going to offer to drive me back for a moment there. But then I guess Jake going out in a car is an awful lot of hassle to go to, just to drop off little old me. He’d probably need his full security team with him.
Not that that I’ve seen many of them around. Just Dave.
“It’s okay, thank you, I’ll walk, it’s not far.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He reaches for the handle to open the door for me, and stops. “Do you have plans tonight … because I was wondering if you would have dinner with me?”
My heart stops. Literally, stops.
Then goes kaboom in my chest.
I’m supposed to be going out for dinner with Will tonight. Will, my lovely boyfriend. Who I can’t cancel on again.
Can I?
If I say no to Jake, I might not get the chance to see him again.
Yes. No. No. Yes.
I’m speaking before I even realise I’m doing it.
“No I don’t have plans, I’m free. Completely free.”
He smiles, widely. “Great. Cool. So we can catch up properly without the threat of an interview hanging over us.” He gives me a small smile, a cheeky glint in his eyes.
Holy shit. Dinner with Jake.
My heart is doing somersaults in my chest.
It’s not a date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date.
“Yes.” My voice goes a little squeaky. I clear my throat. “Sounds like plan.”
He smiles again, it reaches all the way to his beautiful eyes. “Eight o’clock okay?”
Now would be fine with me. Yesterday, whenever, I’m easy.
“Eight o’clock is great.”
“Write down your address and I’ll come pick you up.”
I pull my note pad back out from my bag, quickly scribble down my address, tear the page out and hand it to him.
My fingers touch his in the exchange and my skin hums. I feel my face start to heat up again.
Jake glances at the paper in his hand, then folds it up and puts it in his back pocket.
He opens the door for me and stands aside to let me through.
We walk to the front door in silence, Stuart and Dave are nowhere to be seen.
When we reach the door, we stop for a moment facing one another.
I have no idea why, but I just feel sad again saying goodbye to him. Like I’m never going to see him again. Which is stupid because I’m going to see him tonight.
I’m seeing Jake tonight. A thrill shoots through me.
He reaches his hand up to my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. I almost swoon, my legs trembling, tummy butterflying.
Then he leans down and kisses my cheek.
The feel of his lips on my skin, his hot breath momentarily halts every moving particle of me, paralysing me to the spot, nearly sending me into convulsions.
As he moves back, he smiles warmly at me. “So I’ll see you tonight then.” He opens the door for me.
“Yes, tonight. At eight.” Oh God, I sound like a complete idiot.
I stumble through the door, legs failing on me. I grip hold of my bag like as it’s my life support.
“Bye, Jake,” I say, lingering.
“Bye, Trudy Bennett.”
I force myself to turn and walk down the hall.
When I reach the end of the hall, I turn, looking back but the door is already closed.
I reach the lift and the doors instantly ping open.
I wobble into the lift, press for ground and fall back against the mirrored wall.
I’m going out for dinner tonight with Jake.
Holy shit.