JC

Morning came much earlier than he wanted it to. It usually took a few days for his mind and body to adjust to the time difference, which always included a sleepless night or two, followed by days where he felt like a zombie. Add a brutal schedule and a difficult project on top of that, and JC felt sorry for anyone who had to interact with him that day. It would not be a pleasant exchange.

The previous night had been a bit of a blur. He wasn’t even home for ten minutes before the phone started ringing, and people figured out that he was back in Orlando, and could they stop by and see him for a few minutes, because it had been so long since they could say ‘hi’, in person? He should have known it would turn into a party. Not that he minded, because they brought food and drinks and sat and talked and made him laugh and reminded him of how much he missed being home. Still, he had only planned to grab a sandwich, take a shower, and hit the bed. Tonight, if he managed to make it home before midnight, he wasn’t answering the phone.

JC sat on the edge of the bed in a t-shirt and boxers, bent over, elbows on his knees, half- listening to the banter of the morning crew on the local radio station. Willing himself to get up and out of the bed and take a shower and get dressed and start his day. Surely there was a way to get through this day without actually having to go through it, right?

“In today’s Celebrity Dirt Alert, we heard that Rod “The Bod” Phillips was back in town, after a short stay in LA. And uh, it looks like he brought someone home with him… no, not a girl, thank God…”

“You almost just broke some hearts, Jill.”

“I know, right? No, he brought home Orlando native, sort of—JC Chasez! He hasn’t been back in town for more than a few days at a time, but I heard someone say he’s moved back into his old house, and uh….he’s gonna be here working with Rod on his new album  and directing the music for Rod’s World Tour next year. Pretty exciting.”

“That’s good news, for JC. He’s been off the scene for awhile.”

“Yeah, well there was that big breakup with that model chick… what was her name?”

'Kim,’ JC thought, breathing through the pang that shot through his chest at the mention of her. ‘Her name is Kim Valentine. I loved her.’

“Katie? Kate?”

“No, that was the name of his last album.”

“Anyway. Whatever her name was, I think she kinda, I don’t know, destroyed him?

"You think?"

"Yeah, he just seems like he’s been doing really bad since they broke up, like drinking pretty heavily, partying with a really weird, rough Hollywood crowd. I mean, the last pictures we saw of him, he was not looking good—“

The radio alarm clock busted into pieces on impact, moments after it was yanked from the wall and hurled across the room, sending sharp plastic chunks in a spray across the carpet. He stared at the mess for a few seconds, finding it hard to believe he’d actually done that. Especially since that wasn’t his alarm clock.

The house was his, the furniture was his, the dishes and cutlery and even the garden hose was his—but that alarm clock had belonged to his good friend Will, who had lived there while JC had planted roots in LA. Though he didn’t have to, when JC called to say he was coming back to Orlando for awhile, Will promptly moved in with his girlfriend so JC could have the house to himself. He appreciated the sentiment but sort of looked forward to not living alone, again. The clock was the only thing Will had left in the master bedroom.

“Guess I’ll add ‘replace that clock’ to my list of shit to do, today,” he mumbled to himself, headed toward the bathroom, where hopefully a hot shower would give him some energy and drive.

A long list of errands preceded any music work--change of address form, picking up boxes and other luggage he’d had shipped, arranging for furniture and other items to be delivered to storage. Basic settling in tasks that JC would normally enjoy, except he just couldn’t believe he was back in Orlando.

4pm was music time. With almost a lift in his step, he hurried up the winding sidewalk from the circular driveway to Rod’s home studio. The massive addition was almost the size of his house, and for good reason. Rod and the five piece band wrote, rehearsed, and recorded there. They needed a lot of room for not only equipment, but clashing egos and feelings of self importance. Along the hallway, toward the recording room were smaller rooms outfitted with comfortable, plush chairs and couches, a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a television. Sometimes the band split off into cliques—the separate rooms kept the cliques from going at each other. JC was amazed, sometimes, at how grown men were such children.

Just off the recording studio was a small room where the furniture was not plush and there were no comforts of home like a television or a refrigerator or a microwave, only a square folding table pushed against a wall, a few folding chairs scattered around the room and a stockpile of pens, paper, and sheet music. The room was barely powered, with only one electrical outlet, and barely lit with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was the old kind, where you pulled a string and the light clicked on. Pulled it again and the light clicked off. It wasn’t intended to be comfortable, just quiet and efficient. This was where JC did his writing, plotting, planning, piecing together, if he needed to. That room was home, to him.

Sometimes, over the course of his career, he’d sneak back to Orlando, even if Rod wasn’t in town, and use the studio for artists he was writing or producing. He’d sit in this room, plug in the laptop, open his composition program and let the juices flow. Many a hit had been penned there, and subsequently recorded, there. He’d come to think of that room as a good luck charm for him, so there was no question that he was eager to get back to the place that had brought him so much good. He hoped the magic was still there.

There were cars in the driveway. Some of the band members were already at the studio, likely huddled in their little rooms, looking pretty worn out. JC nodded as he shuffled past one room, ever-present leather satchel on his shoulder.

“Ay, JC!” The voice belonged to Sam, a heavyset black man that, despite his girth, made women swoon with his soulful saxophone. Three years ago, he was a struggling sax player working the club circuit, just trying to stay afloat. An offhand comment to Rod one night while they shared a few beers started the wheels turning and soon Sam was adding flavor and a depth to plain old pop—a combination that often surprised people. JC liked surprising people with things they wouldn’t think they’d like.

JC doubled back and poked his head into the room. A football game was on the TV and two open cans of Pepsi sat on the small table in front of them. Duke appeared to be passed out on half of the couch.  Sam took up the other half, an arm casually laid across the top of the cushions.

“Hey, Sam. How’s it going? How’s the new baby?”

“The new baby is fine,” Sam answered, his grin wide.  “Got her all shined up, she’s ready to work.”

JC laughed—only people that knew them would know the only baby in Sam’s life was a shiny new tenor saxophone. “That’s what I like to hear. She’s getting a workout, today. I need to get set up back there, but I’ll have some changes for you on Evil Side of Me and Can’t Get Enough. They’ll be different than the original notes, but not too far off the mark. I just want to slow it down a little. Give the new baby a chance to shine.”

“Sounds good. We’ll be ready.”

Duke let out a long snore, loud enough to compete with the sound of the TV. Both men stared in his direction, gave each other a look and a shrug, and laughed.

“I don’t know how you put up with that. I can’t imagine him on a tour bus.”

“You tune it out, after awhile. You can pretty much live your life around him. He sleeps through everything.”

“Thankfully, so do I.”

JC ducked out of the room and ambled further down the hall, poking his head into random rooms, which were all empty except for Rod’s office. It was almost as big as the recording room, and plusher than any of the side rooms. Rod could, and sometimes did, literally live there. One side was every cubicle worker’s dream—spacious wood desk with matching credenza, leather Executive chair, top of the line multi phone system, carpet that gave the illusion of walking on air.

The other side of the room satisfied Rod’s ‘sleep all day, party all night’ side. A mini-bar was built into one wall, alongside a soda dispenser and one of those expensive, shiny, silver coffee machines with all the buttons and knobs that somehow, if you pressed the right combination, would give you a latte or a cappuccino, or some fancy coffee thing. If he drank it at all, JC just liked the plain, non fancy black coffee from the gas station down the street. Rod didn’t even drink coffee, but Rod liked girls, and girls liked coffee, and girls loved that machine. They also loved the long sofa with the comfortable pillows that pulled out into a queen size bed. Few girls actually made it past the studio and into the house, up the stairs to the private living quarters. He liked to say he never even learned their names—he wouldn’t know them long enough to care.

 Rod was in his office, feet propped up, showing off his tan, muscular legs. The phone had been pulled across the desk, the receiver tucked between an ear and a shoulder while he flipped through a stack of pages stapled together. His stare was intense, like he was in the middle of an important conversation, so JC hadn’t intended to stop and talk. The sooner he got to his room, the sooner he could get to work.

“Yeah, hold on one second,” Rod said, covering the mouthpiece with his palm. “Hey what’s up? Hang out for a second, will you? I’m just about off of this call.” He pointed toward one of the chairs in front of the desk and went back to his phone call. Rod really never imagined that people said ‘no’ to him. JC wanted to, but didn’t. Instead, he trudged into the room and plopped into a chair, probably looking every ounce as bored as he actually was.

“Mmmhmm.” JC tried not to listen to the call, to think of other things, occupy his mind, but he was right there. “Yeah, but I thought we agreed on 3 percent. I don’t understand why I’m seeing 7 percent all over this contract. Someone gave themselves an extra 4 percent, and I’ll be God damned if I’m giving up an extra 4 percent….… yeah, well fix it. I want to see a revision by 5 o’ clock.” Rod slammed the phone back into its cradle and dumped the stack of pages onto the desk. He propped his elbows on the surface and buried his head in his hands, letting out a long moan.

“Rough day?”

“You know it. I wish I could trust people to keep these details straight, but… I can’t. I gotta read every contract, comb through it like I’m just looking for something to be wrong. You know, I always find something. Someone’s always trying to get over. Like this thing?” He picked up the stack and tossed it to the edge of the desk. JC glanced at it, but didn’t really care to read it. It was Rod’s business. “If you want to use my name, and have me endorse something, it’s a good idea to not try and pay yourself $25,000 more than I agreed to pay you. I’m tempted to nix this thing right here and now.”

JC knew he wouldn’t. Rod liked to see his name on everything, in everything, around everything. And Rod liked money. He wouldn’t nix it—but he’d most certainly get his way. He’d never heard the word ‘no’, after all.

Rod took a deep breath and raised his head, fanning his fingers out, like he was releasing the bad energy. “So, how’s it going? You feeling better about all this? Can I count on you, Chasez?”

“Yeah. I’ve been… workin’ on it.” He didn’t sound convincing, and he knew it, but he didn’t want to get cocky about his abilities before he could produce something worth listening to. “I’ve been reworking some stuff the past few weeks. I think you’ll like it, but I want to run it through, first. Hear how it sounds in real life, as opposed to how it sounds in my head. You know?”

Rod smiled, nodding his head. Knowing. He and JC thought a lot alike. He knew exactly where JC was going, and liked it more and more. “Good. I can’t wait to get in the studio and start blowin’. I’ve got some more phone calls to make, some more people to yell at. Get to work, why dontcha?”

Finally, JC thought to himself, but resisted actually saying it. Instead, he got up from the chair and went directly to the studio, passing through a dark, cavernous room with every model and make of recording equipment a musician could ask for. Soon that room would be full of music, the beautiful sounds that never failed him, never made him feel inferior, never made him feel unloved or untalented, was faithful and always gave 100 percent. Music had been a perfect girlfriend, a consummate lover. His soulmate. Maybe he just wasn’t meant for anyone else.

The moment he entered the familiar room, and pulled the string to turn the light switch, and slid his bag onto the plain folding table, and sat in the plain folding chair, he felt at home. His heart was light, and a little happier. He started to hum, working through the changes to one of Rod’s biggest hits. Making it a little more soulful, a little jazzier, and a little longer. For a concert, Rod would want to draw the crowd into it and have some time to walk the stage, working the ladies, feeling the groove. He nodded his head as his laptop whirred and worked and booted, and then navigated to the composition program, ready to begin another long day of working magic.

~ ~ ~

“Okay, Sam. So, here are the changes I came up with. Like I said, it’s not dramatic, but it’s just slowing it down enough to find the blue note, that flavor that I know you can bring out. Let’s try it one time, from the top, okay?”

JC settled at the keyboard, fingers poised, but at the last second twisting around again to face Sam. “And let me know if this just doesn’t work for you, it’s not set in stone, alright? I mean, you’re the one that has to play it, so—“

“JC.” Sam’s expression was stony, his hand up to stop the avalanche of words coming at him. “Let’s just play. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

JC paused, then laughed at himself a little, and turned back around, keying the beginning notes, almost cueing him to come in, but Sam felt the rhythm of the song and dropped in exactly when he was supposed to, playing flawlessly through the first verse and into the chorus. When the saxophone dropped off, JC stopped playing and turned around again. Sam was smiling. Grinning rather, ear to ear.

“This is gonna be some hot shit right here, C. Hot. Shit.”

In spite of himself, JC grinned back, dipping his head a little, and then letting it rise again. There was no room for humility in music. Everything you did had to be “hot shit” in order to stay on top. “Glad you think so, Sam. Glad you think so. Now get to playin’! Verse two!”

Hours later, after they’d worked and reworked and worked the notes again, Sam and JC played the parts for Rod, while he stretched out on the futon against the wall of the studio. He closed his eyes, his ear turned toward the two musicians, his head nodding, toe tapping, fingers subconsciously playing the accompanying guitar chords. When the song was finished, his eyes opened.

“I like that,” Rod said with a slow nod and half cocked smile. “I love that. Love it a lot. Question, though. Verse two, where Sam comes in a little late, like a half beat? Is that on purpose? “

JC smiled, knowing Rod would catch that and ask about it. “I think it catches the undercurrent of the lyric. When you play it and sing it at the same time, you’ll hear that. Play it again, Sam.” He played the second verse, dropping the lyric over the music while Sam played the sax. “You see how it picks it up, there? Kind of adds a little hook that people will hang onto.”

Rod stared for a few seconds, his mouth twisted, fingers tapping a phantom beat against the worn futon cover. Then, sucking his teeth, he sat forward, hands clasped. “Genius. This? This, my friend, is exactly why I asked you to come.”

~ ~ ~

JC could not believe his watch. He checked his phone, and the wall clock, and the clock in the car. It really was 4am.  It amazed him how dog tired he was, even though to his body it was only 1am. He was tired, but not sleepy. They’d finally called it a night after Duke passed out again, stretched out on the futon, hat over his face, snoring up a storm. They left him there, just walked out and turned out the lights. Duke would either wake up and drive himself home, or he’d still be there the next day when they arrived. JC was betting on Duke still being there the next day.

He was hungry, but like all big little cities, Orlando had nothing open that appealed to him at 4am. Winter Park had even less. LA had places that stayed open all night—he could go down to Kitchen24 and get a burger right this minute, if he was in LA. But he wasn’t. He was in Orlando, where even the bars were closed, and the only places open served shit food that he wasn’t really in the mood to eat.

JC wandered the streets aimlessly, sort of avoiding going home. There was no one there. Another big, empty house, where Kim wasn’t. She wouldn’t be on the couch, where she would have fallen asleep waiting up for him, because she couldn’t sleep alone. She wouldn’t offer to make him something to eat before they climbed the stairs and crawled into bed and enjoyed each other for a few minutes before sleep sounded better than anything. More important than Kim not being there, there was no food there.

Food. He could buy food. It was the perfect time—he was less likely to run into a gaggle of screaming teenage girls at 4am in the middle of Publix. The most he’d get was a smile and a double take from the clerk that rang up his groceries. Yeah. Food would be a good idea.

Shelby

Another night with little to no sleep. She had dropped her mom off at the airport that evening. Renee had  already called to say she made it back to Miami. Shelby teared up a little, hearing her dad in the background, and made an excuse to get off the phone quickly so she could throw herself onto the couch and let the tears flow with abandon.

She missed her mom, already. And her dad. They were all she had, in this mixed up mess. The last year had been… well, hell would be a good word to use to describe it. Running away from Miami and people she thought she could call friends, and people she was about to call family, and people who said they cared was a last resort. Maybe if she just went away and got to a place where she could heal and reinvent herself, the world would be a better place. The expression went that the world was a cold, lonely place. At 92 degrees, it was far from cold, but lonely fit the bill.

The few minutes that she was going to give herself to wallow in self pity turned into hours laying on the couch, on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the TV drone on and one while tear after tear rolled down the side of her face, into her ears, into her hair. The sun set, and the house grew dark, and the late night shows began.

‘Time to play out this farce I call going to bed’, she thought, and pulled herself up from the couch, stumbled toward the bedroom, and rolled into bed, surprisingly falling asleep almost right away.

But now it was 3am and she was wide awake. Tired as sin, grumpy, almost in pain, she wanted to sleep so badly, but it wasn’t happening. Heaving a defeated sigh, she sat up and began her nightly ritual of wandering.

She wandered every square foot of the house, from her bedroom to the two spare bedrooms down the hall, to the den and the formal living room and dining room, to the kitchen and out to the garage, around the back of the house, finally ending up sitting outside in one of the rattan lawn chairs spread about the wood deck. Gazing up at the stars, wondering what the hell she was doing up? And what was she supposed to be doing with this time? How the hell was life better, three hours away from the only people who had proven they loved her by sticking by her side?

“I need to get out of this house.  That’s what I need. “

That idea sounded good, better every second she considered it. A little drive, maybe to the 24 hour grocery store, down the street. No one would be there. No one would think it was odd to see someone picking up a few items at… she checked her watch… 4am.

It was just a time of day. Middle of the day, middle of the night, who could tell anymore? She hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time in months. Usually around this time of morning, she was fidgeting from cabin fever, having wandered every inch of wherever she was staying—hotel room, condo, house in the hills, or this new home in Orlando. As beautiful as the fantastic view of the lake and the surrounding forest could be, sometimes she felt a little closed in, a little claustrophobic, a little trapped. Fresh air always did her some good, and there was something about the air at the edge of night that she much preferred.

Energized, and feeling like she had a purpose, Shelby stepped through the sliding glass doors off of the den, back into the house. Made a mental grocery list.  Almost ducked into the bathroom to check her hair, but who would be at Publix at 4am? Stock boys and random people that would look just as harried and tired and disheveled as she did.

A little early morning shopping trip. That was a good idea.

 JC

The best thing about shopping before sunrise was that no one was there to hear him talk to himself. Or argue with himself. Or sing along to the 80’s hits coming out of the speakers overhead.

“Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take ya…$4.59 for Cheerios? That’s highway robbery right there, man…. Kokomo, we’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow…I can’t remember if $1.99 a pound is good for chicken or not…”

The cage of the grocery cart rattled on wobbly wheels as he slowly pushed it up one aisle and down another, not looking for anything in particular, just food to put in the house. JC wasn’t much of a cook, but he could make easy dishes if the directions were clear. He loved those one box meals-- pour it in a pan, shove it in the oven. Warm up some rolls, and there you have it. It was nothing fancy, but it was dinner. And if he couldn’t stop by a Taqueria and get a burrito at 4 am, the least he could do was have something easy to make and warm up when he got home.

It was going to be a long year. 

The store was pretty much empty, just a few cashiers, an overnight manager who didn’t even look up when he walked past the Customer Service counter, stock boys refilling shelves and maintenance gliding over the floors with dust mops, emptying garbage cans, washing windows. It seemed like a peaceful job, if you were a night owl. Not a lot of people around to bug you, pretty much the same deal, night after night after night. Maybe, when he was done with all of this music industry business, he could retire and work at a grocery store, and work overnights, and make it his job to see that the windows sparkled, and the floors were clean, and the shelves were stocked.

Yeah, right.

JC heard the front doors slide open and then closed again. Someone else liked shopping at 4am, it seemed. He’d made his way around most of the store, his cart only half full of boxed food, cereal, milk, and bottled water. He stopped at the vitamin section, overwhelmed with all of his choices—One-A-Day for Men, One-A-Day for Energy, Vitamins with extra Vitamin and added C, D, and E… what the hell was up with the vitamin alphabet?

He pushed his cart, steering it toward the next aisle. With a loud rattle and the vibrant clang of steel on steel, he collided with something he couldn’t see around the bend.

“Sorry, sorry. My fault.”

“It’s okay,” said a female voice from around the corner. Must have been his accompanying early morning shopper. “I’m sort of not paying attention, either.”

His cart wouldn’t pull back, for some reason, no matter how hard he pulled, so he had to walk around and inspect the wheels. As he expected, he’d rammed so hard that the wheels rode up and got caught in the rungs of the bottom of the cart. They were stuck there and the harder he pulled, the more he was melding them together.

“Uhm. Our carts seem to be uh… intertwined, here.” JC bent and pushed and pulled and tipped and twisted, and finally they came apart, rolling away like they couldn’t stand to be near each other.

“Thanks. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

 JC stood, wiping oil and dirt off of his hands onto his jeans, reaching out for his cart before it knocked boxes off of the shelves. He redirected it and finally looked at her. “No problem. It was my fault, anyway.”

She smiled back, and for a millisecond everything was fine. And then he saw it, in her eyes. Recognition. That look that women got when they realized who was standing in front of them, that split second of trying to decide if they should freak out or play it cool, say something or let it go, ask for a picture  and an autograph and a serenade, or respect his privacy. He always enjoyed the millisecond, and sometimes enjoyed what came after but it always bugged the shit out of him when women had no clue who he was. Where had they been for the past ten years? Living under a rock?

“Well, it was nice running into you,” she said, her smile a little wider.  She had a dimple. It was cute. She was cute. “Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.” She was going with playing it cool. Good choice.

“Sure,” he said, with a chuckle. “Anytime you’re out shopping at, like 5 in the morning, I’m game.” 

“It’s a date. Uhm. Well… I’ll let you get back to your… shopping.” 

He was a little sad as he watched her back up and steer her cart around him, on her way to start her own trek through the store. He might be missing Kim but he was still a man, with a libido, and still knew what a pretty woman looked like. Despite a lack of makeup and a messy, half up, half down pony tail, that woman was pretty. He could only imagine how she looked when she really tried.

He poked his head around the end cap that boasted 50% off of Flintstone Vitamins, Bayer Aspirin, and Calamine lotion, watching her walk toward the frozen food section, his eyes fixed on two perfectly formed cheeks, hugged and outlined by the fabric of her yoga pants as they moved with her slow, sexy sway across the dull linoleum. His eyes roved up her body, quickly before she could move out of his line of sight, to her thin waist and slight shoulders and long neck. He wished he’d paid more attention to the front of her, but the back of her wasn’t a bad view at all. 

She turned her head, just as she was about to turn down an aisle. He quickly ducked back behind the end cap. Hot and sweaty and flushed, he pulled his cart down his own aisle and headed toward checkout. Praying she hadn’t seen him leering at her like a creepy old man.

But afraid that she had.

Shelby

Oh my fucking God!  

She just kept saying it to herself, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why the fuck would HE be at a goddamned grocery store at like, 5am? Didn’t he have people to shop for him?

It amused Shelby, only slightly though, that she was more pissed than star struck. Mostly because she looked like ass, and she knew it. She hadn’t even attempted to comb her hair or wipe off her lipstick from earlier in the day, or shower or…or… anything. And here she was in the middle of a grocery store, staring at one of music’s most eligible bachelors looking like shit on a stick. She cursed at herself all the way down the aisle, vowing to never, not ever step out of the house looking bad, ever again. And of course, her luck would dictate that she would never, not ever see him again, despite looking like a beauty queen.

‘Just shop, and get the hell out of here,’ she told herself, mumbling something about frozen waffles, and turned a corner. A sale caught her eye and she turned her head, but beyond the sign she was reading, she saw his cart still protruding from the same aisle, and a flash of raven hair duck behind the end cap. And then the cart yanked out of sight, and she guessed, back down the aisle.

‘He was… I think he was watching me! Creepy fucker.’

Not that she was in any position to entertain an advance from anyone, let alone JC Chasez, she was flattered, sort of. If she looked better, she’d have been happy to return the attention, but who knew what he was looking at, and why? Was he laughing at her? Did he think she was drunk? Crazy? Ugly? Was he comparing her to all those hot women he knew back in LA… and what was he even doing here, in Orlando? Didn’t he live in California?

‘Fuck him, ruining my shopping trip. Hope he liked the view.’

Fuming, Shelby dug her short grocery list out of her bag and began checking items off, trying to put him—that gorgeous piece of man with blue eyes and dark hair and broad chest and voice like silk—out of her mind. It would probably be the only time she’d ever see him. It was just her luck that she met him at the wrong time, but maybe that’s what she deserved. She didn’t need to complicate her life anymore.

For all her efforts, she only ended up with a few bags, not even enough to drag the cart out to the parking lot. She parked her cart with the others and carried her bags to her car, popping the trunk with the button on her key, dumping the bags into the trunk and finally sliding into the driver’s seat. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, lighting up the car with a soft pink glow.

Shelby started the car and checked her rear view mirror. Holy… God. She looked at herself and wondered why he didn’t cringe when he saw her. Her hair was a mess, her face looked pale, her lips were still stained with the previous day’s color. And her t-shirt was on inside out, the seams and backward logo across her chest screaming incompetence and lack of care in how she looked. She wanted to yell and curse and throw things, but would have felt stupid doing so. Instead, she rammed the car into drive and squealed out of the parking lot, back down the road toward the house.

‘Dear God, if I ever get a chance to see him again, please make it when I actually look good, okay?’  

JC

He had just ducked into his car, key in the ignition, about to crank it when he saw her again, bouncing out of the store. She looked to be in a hurry, carrying several bags and a small purse toward a late model Mercedes. He felt creepy, staring at her, watching her, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see her face, again.

She was oblivious, loading her trunk, slamming it closed, walking around to the driver side door, her breasts under her t-shirt bouncing with her movements. He licked his suddenly very dry lips, feeling a twitch in his dick and a lick of fire through his groin. ‘Down boy,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not today. Not right now, anyway. But good to see you’re still alive.’

Faster than he would like, she ducked into her car. Her windshield was tinted, but not fully, as per the law in the state of Florida. From across the parking lot, he could still make out her face. It had a nice shape to it, sort of a heart. He wished he could remember what color her eyes were, but probably brown. Cute little nose. Arched brows, so maybe her look that morning was a fluke. He couldn’t say he’d look much better if he hadn’t have come from somewhere. She had to have a reason to be up at 5am, out and about, randomly shopping. He was going to guess insomnia.

Either that, or she was nuts.

He watched her check herself out in the rearview mirror, a look of disgust crossing her face. He laughed out loud, the sound a little shocking in the silence of the car. ‘Yeah, she’s kicking herself, right about now.’  She rolled her eyes at herself, her full, pretty lips pursed as she pulled out, tires squealing as she rounded the corner at the end of the street. Girls were funny. She was pissed that she looked like shit.

Really, JC didn’t care. He still hoped he might see her again.

//