He was a heavy sleeper; that never went away. Even at 43, JC could sleep through a storm the size of the fury of God and end up in a tree five miles away from his Beverly Hills mansion and would only stir long enough to flip over on his other side and continue sleeping. Though his sleep was never fitful, it was weighed heavily with his thoughts. Thoughts about his failed fame, his monstrous debt, his dead wife, and his children—his son.
JC's eyes flew open at once, his body flinging up from his bed like a snapped rubber band before erupting into a fit of coughs so violent he thought he tasted blood as it splattered from his throat against his teeth. He had to literally toss himself out of the bed and crawled a few inches before mustering the strength to rise to his feet and stumble into the bathroom. The coughs continued to echo and vibrate in his broad chest and he didn't bother switching the light on before eagerly turning the knobs of the sink, sticking his face underneath the icy stream of water and drank thirstily. The rain outside continued to fall miserably and made jagged patterned shadows on the marble floor as it pounded against the bathroom window. JC’s shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair was still thick and long enough to create a flip at the nook of his neck, but at the moment it was matted and wet against his clammy skin. He took a shaky breath before rubbing his face with his calloused hands and trudged back to bed. The digital clock’s red numbers blazed in the darkness like fresh embers and informed the man that it was almost 5am.
There was no particular reason that early morning to be up, tossing and turning with the pit of his stomach sour as old milk. It was like JC was waiting the hammer to fall; something was going to happen. He hugged his feathered pillow tight and settled on his side. The east wall of his bedroom was nearly one full window, and it overlooked the sky line of Los Angeles. A pair of helicopters circled the city and its skyscrapers, perhaps the local news stations summarizing what traffic would be like for the early morning commuters. Lush trees, spotted with dew, swayed in the mid-winter wind, and although it hardly got cold enough in L.A. to have the heater running all night in his house, JC received a slight chill in his bones. He kept his eyes on the trees for a few more seconds before a bright light suddenly washed them in white. Headlights.
His abdomen seemed to twist in worry, his heart thumping so loudly he had to swallow a few times in order to breathe correctly. Finally, he gathered enough courage to leave his bed again and slowly make his way down the hallway. Two doors to the left of his bedroom, he reached inside the closet to grab his old Louisville Slugger and continued to the staircase. He passed his 8 year-old daughter’s closed door, then his 17 year-old son’s door. Nothing odd there; those kids liked their doors closed. But still, something in JC’s gut told him tonight was completely off and something was about to happen. His bones creaked beneath his weight as he descended the steps and sure enough, he heard muffled curses and brute voices in the foyer of his home. One voice belonged to Ares. JC found a step high enough so that he could hide in the shadows and watch his son without being seen himself. He was just in time to watch Ares walk through the front door, drenched in the rain and followed by another young man who was only an inch or two taller than Ares’ towering frame. The younger Chasez paced and let out a string of worried phrases mixed with anger and disgust at his best friend that JC recognized instantly. Ares peered around, as if feeling his father’s eyes directly on him, but was distracted by his friend punching his shoulder with force. He cradled his head in his hands as his friend dragged in a large black plastic bag, like a trash bag, through the doorway and into the house. The bag landed on the marble floor with a loud thud and Ares kicked the side of it in anger. Tears filled JC’s eyes. He was wrong; something wasn’t about to happen… it had already begun.
