The Mighty Storm (The Storm 1)

We reach the door facing us at the end of the hall. Dave knocks once, loudly on the door and moves aside, standing by the door, leaning against the wall, leaving me standing in front of it on my own.

I’m instantly self-conscious. And my face is burning up with worry and nerves.

What if Jake really doesn’t remember me and then it just becomes embarrassing and horrid.

Right here and now I’m making the decision to not say anything about our childhood or even acknowledge I remember him. I’ll just wait for him to say something first and then I’ll act all cool and nonchalant about it. And if he doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t remember me, then it’s cool as I won’t look like an idiot explaining who I am.

Or not.

Whatever.

I’m just not say anything first.

The door opens, and standing before me, is a sharply dressed man, in a designer suit and the shiniest shoes I have ever seen. And holy hell he is beautiful.

“Ms. Bennett, hello, I’m Stuart, Jake’s PA. It is so lovely to meet you.” He gives me a warm smile and reaches out his hand to shake mine.

My cheeks flush red. Gorgeous and friendly. PA’s are usually not so nice to journalists, or this good looking.

I take hold of his hand and give my most professional ‘I’m a serious journalist’ handshake. I just hope he doesn’t notice how badly my hand is shaking.

He gives me another smile, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

Yep, he felt the shake and knows how nervous I am.

“Jake is in the living room waiting for you, please follow me,” he gestures.

I follow Stuart down the hall, the door magically closing behind me; Dave I’m guessing.

Stuart rounds the corner, I follow behind, and then I find myself in a huge living room, and standing across the room from me is Jake.

My heart lurches out of my chest, jumps across the room and whams straight into him.

I feel lost.

My eyes meet his, and I see it … the instant recognition.

He remembers me.

I feel absolute relief amongst my jittery nerves. Like little monkeys are swinging trees across my nerve endings.

He’s wearing fitted black jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, and his hair is in its trademark style.

And he just looks so painstakingly beautiful.

Stuart moves aside, and I walk a little further into the room on seriously wobbly legs. I wish I’d worn flats now.

Jake’s eyes stay trained on mine. I think he looks a little stunned, and I’m not quite sure in this moment if that is a good thing or not.

“Tru?” His voice. It sounds the same, just deeper, manly, and more American than British now of course, but still the same. I’ve heard him talk on the TV, but hearing him, here, now talking to me – it’s just Jake – the Jake I knew.

“Trudy Bennett?” he repeats. “My Trudy Bennett?”

His Trudy Bennett?

My heart goes haywire as it returns safely to my chest. Thank god he can’t hear it.

He takes a step forward. “Shit, it really is you.”

I nod. “Yes. It’s really me.” I sound like his echo, but I don’t really know what else to say.

I wasn’t exactly sure why I was so terrified and nervous about seeing him. I just figured it was because of who he is now, his stature. But looking at him here, now, I know why I was so scared.

I was afraid that seeing him again after all this time would cause my old feelings to resurface.

And seeing Jake, looking like this, I just know that I am so completely and totally fucked.

Because I’m now fourteen year old Trudy all over again.

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 fucking 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.