Trevor Fiction: Jackson Died (Post-Trevor’s Song Era)

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is toys. I was flummoxed by this prompt, as I’d had my heart set on posting this. And then I realized I could: Kerri and Trevor toy with each other. Is it a stretch? You tell me.

One more thing before we get to the fiction, and that’s the subtext here. There’s a lot being alluded to but not said. How much can you pick up on, including a reference to our latest friend, Soul Bendorff?

Rusty and Mitchell stood side by side, not touching. That fact alone was enough to make Trevor stop and stare at them. Then he noticed what was on the TV.

Jackson Alcott had died. He’d been fifty-four.

Trevor lit a cigarette and came to stand beside Mitchell. He nodded at the TV. “What’s up?”

“They’re saying massive heart attack. I can believe it.”

“Did he sniff too hard?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Mighta swallowed wrong.” He grabbed Trevor’s cigarette and tossed it on the floor. The sound of his stomp broke up the hypnotic chatter from the tube. It also broke the trance Rusty had fallen into.

“He was supposed to do some shows next month.”

Trevor groaned. Rusty couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d tried to be.

“We’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t say it.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“You think with Amy hovering over us like some fucking worried mother, we’re not okay? You’re fucking stupid if you think she’s not watching every last move we make.”

“She called me about ten minutes ago. As soon as we get home, she’s sending me to a cardiologist for a stress test,” Mitchell said. He snorted. “Like I need it. Onstage two hours a night. In the pool a couple days a week. I’m in good shape.”

“You smoke,” Trevor pointed out, holding his thumb and index finger to his mouth.

“Not as much as I used to,” Mitchell said. “I used to smoke a lot more than that.”

“Score one for me,” Kerri said.

Mitchell pulled her into his arms.

Trevor fought the need to gag. Of course these two could turn death into something sappy. Of fucking course.

“Oh, honey,” he said in his best fake-woman voice. “I couldn’t live without you.”

“But you won’t need to,” he said, switching over to a male voice. “Even if I die, I’ll be here. With you. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his head as if he was swooning.

To his surprise, Rusty broke away from Mitchell and kissed his cheek. “Whether or not you mean it, Trev, you will be there. I couldn’t get rid of you if I hired an exterminator.”

“Tried, huh?”

“Everything but,” she said.

He wandered off, not thinking about Jackson Alcott nearly as much as he was thinking about the fact that no matter what happened to him now, Rusty was stuck with him for life.

Alive or dead. He’d never leave her alone. There was something perfectly delicious about that.