Page 38 of Broken Lines

When I step into Jackson’s home, I honestly expect to walk into some kind of temple of rock ‘n roll hedonism. I expect to see smashed furniture, broken glass…maybe bodily fluids sprayed across the wall.

Drugs, alcohol, and perhaps passed out or even dead groupies strewn across the floor.

Instead, the house I step into is actually…nice. I mean, it’s a fucking mess. There’s beer and whiskey bottles littering most surfaces, and old newspapers, and dirty clothes. And at least four or five guitars that I can see from just the doorway strewn across various couches, the staircase, a coffee table, and a piano—which is also covered with empty bottles and crumpled bits of paper.

But…it’s actually an incredible home, and you can still see the former grandeur from its gilded-age roots.

I follow Jackson through the front entryway into massive, cavernous, ski-lodge sized living room. And when I step into that, my breath catches as my eyes go wide.

The far wall is all windows and glass doors—like Gatsby’s ballroom or something equally Fitzgerald-ish—that look straight out over the ocean, past the cliffs beyond. And directly in front of them at the back of the house, an overgrown patio that looks as if it may have been an old Japanese-style tea garden.

With the black storm clouds gathering outside, and the rain beginning to fall, it’s got this incredibly moody, atmospheric look that takes my breath away.

I pause, turning to stab my gaze through the slightly magical, dusty particles cascading in the light splaying out across the room. I take in the guitars, the piano, the trash, the bottles of booze everywhere…

My gaze slides back to the coffee table, and my lips thin. There’s a mirror, with remnants of white powder all over it.

A scene straight out of my mother’s apartment.

“You want a bump?” He grunts as he walks past me towards what looks like a spacious, light filled kitchen through another doorway.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

Jackson pauses and turns to look at me over a shoulder, a small smirk on his face.

“Oh…” he lifts a brow. “I see,” he says drolly.

I frown.

“Excuse me?”

He just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Nothing. I’m just thinking that music reporters for Rolling Stone from other eras—”

“I don’t work for Rolling Stone.”

“Ignition. Fine, whatever.” He shrugs. “I’m just saying twenty years ago, you’d be right in there, nose-first with your ass in the air saying please.”

Silence hangs in the living room as I stare at him, shaking my head.

“Wow. So, this is like your thing, then?”

The smug look on his face clouds.

“Is what my thing.”

“Talking like a crude teenager who just discovered bad words? Just being a massive dick and seeing how far that takes you with girls—”

“I see you’ve heard about my massive dick.”

My face burns hotly.

“No, that isnotwhat I meant—”

“So, that’s just how you imagine it in your head?”

I stammer, my pulse thudding.

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