Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER 5
HIGH-STAKES GAMBLING

The Burkhart Mansion

A Year Later

...

Jackie hung up her pink phone gingerly, but she'd wanted to slam the receiver down. The call she'd just received was her fork in the road, something she knew was coming. A Chicago television producer had offered her a job. He enjoyed the reel of her best public access show clips, and according to him, she had "lots of creative potential".

The phone lay innocently on her nightstand. Her foot ached to smash into it, just as her foot had smashed into Steven's shin—countless times, it seemed—during the last three months. His attitude toward her lately was less than encouraging. Shade's, however, was as warm as ever. The cat padded up to her on the bed and rubbed his fuzzy cheek against her chin.

"If I take this job," she said and petted the top of his head, "it means I'll have to leave you for a while... until I can afford a decent apartment."

Whatever place she'd rent at first would probably be small, very small. Nothing compared to her mother's giant house. Pam Burkhart—now back to Pam Bailey, her maiden name—won the house in the divorce settlement with Jackie's father. The mansion and the Lincoln were the only things spared from his bankruptcy. Jackie had moved back into the house, but it didn't feel like home. No place did anymore, except Shade.

He was over two-years-old now and over two-feet long from hind legs to front paws, but he still had the face of a kitten. His pouchy cheeks made him look younger, and she never got bored watching him simply live. But as much as she loved him, he wasn't enough to anchor her in Point Place.

"Donna will take good care of you," she said. She stroked his cream-colored fur as tears rose in her eyes. "Well, she'll make sure you're fed and—and go to the vet."

Her throat tightened, and a good sob built up in her chest. She tried to imprison it, but her cries fought their way out of her. "Damn, you Steven!" she whispered. This was his fault. He'd forced her into this decision. After more than two years together, he still couldn't commit to her. She'd pressed him, and he finally confessed a life with her would be "crap".

"No," she said to Shade, "that wasn't exactly what your daddy said." But Steven's enthusiasm for their relationship was non-existent. She'd broken up with him over it, with no real cards in her hand. He had the advantage. She wanted him too much to stay apart, and they reconciled on the condition she wouldn't talk about their future anymore.

But now she had an ace to pull out. She'd be moving away. Maybe that would shock Steven's heart back to life. He'd either realize how important she was to him—or she'd realize how unimportant she was to him.

Jackie waited until nightfall to make her play. She'd gone to the basement, hoping to find Steven alone, but Michael and Fez were there watching television with him. They stuck around even after she asked them to leave. But her heart was beating too quickly for her to care, and as she sat on the couch, Michael and Fez became non-entities to her.

"Steven," she said, "this TV producer called to tell me he loved my public access show... and then he offered me a job at his station in Chicago starting next week."

"Whoa." Steven lost his casual demeanor and leaned forward in his chair. "You're gonna take a job and move to Chicago?"

Her speeding heart fluttered. His body language was what she'd longed to see; it was his tell. He actually cared about what she was saying. In fact, he looked like she'd hit him with a clothing rack full of thick coats. His sunglasses weren't dark enough to conceal his alarm.

"No," she said, wanting to allay both their fears. "No, not yet." She reached out and grasped his hand. His fingers tightened around her palm but only briefly. "I wanted to talk to you about it first. Steven," she inhaled a steadying breath, "this is my dream come true, but you are the most important thing in the world to me. So I'm willing to give it all up and stay here with you, but if I do that..." She searched his eyes before continuing, but his lashes half-concealed them. He was looking down, not at her. "But if I do that," she repeated, "I need to know we're gonna get married."

His fingers grew limp in her hand, but she refused to let go. "Jackie, we just agreed not to talk about our future."

She squeezed his palm. "But our future is happening right now."

"What about Shade?

"I'm sure Donna will take him."

Steven straightened up, and his hand pulled free from her. "You're not taking him with you?"

"Not at first, and I can't leave him with my mom. You know how she is." Her muscles tensed. Time had come to put all her chips in the pot. "Look, the station needs an answer by noon on Sunday, and I do, too."

"Well..." his voice grew soft, almost to a whisper, "I don't know what to say right now."

Her mouth dropped open, and an inner blizzard chilled her chest. That was his response? Where was his overture? Where was his, "Please, Jackie, don't leave"? She needed every bit of willpower not to scream at him. Had the last two years between them meant nothing?

She asked him none of these questions. Her bet had been made, and he'd raised her. She called to see his cards, and he had a day-and-a-half to show them.

This was unlike any round of poker she'd ever played. He hadn't folded, which was a good sign. But did he think she was bluffing? That this was just a manipulation on her part? He never folded when they played actual cards. On too many rainy days when they stayed in, he always bet until the bitter end, even when it was clear she had a royal flush. She needed him to do so now, to bet on their future together, not to throw in his cards.

Jackie was gone. She'd left a hurricane in her wake, but Hyde felt preternaturally calm. He was in the eye of the storm, man, and he walked measuredly toward his room. Kelso and Fez were shouting things at him, but he couldn't hear them, not over the driving wind in his skull.

He disappeared through his door and locked it. Then a bolt of Jackie's lightning split him open.

He tore his Sex Pistols poster off the wall, and after that, freezing rain numbed his awareness. He was lying on his cot when he regained himself. The comforter and sheets Jackie gave him had been tossed somewhere, and the lumpy mattress dug into his back. His room was probably trashed. His knuckles throbbed, and the skin beneath his fingernails stung. His hands must have done some real damage, but he couldn't turn his face to scope it out. His gaze was iced to the ceiling.

Thoughts whipped inside his head as the hurricane weakened to a tropical storm. Too much had happened in the last year, and his body still had trouble processing it. He'd learned Bud wasn't his biological father. That fact, however, couldn't negate the last twenty years of Bud's weakness, of his botched parenting. It had stained Hyde's outlook on life, a swollen and bloated vision drifting into a river drainage pipe.

And the guy who actually was Hyde's father? William Barnett. He had a cool style and decent taste in music—and more money than Hyde had ever hoped to see—but none of these things really mattered. They man gave a crap about Hyde without a catch. Hell, W.B. seemed to love him, and all Hyde had to do was exist.

He always felt cagey asking anyone for help, especially when it came to dough. But he'd done so anyway, to W.B. three times in the last year. The first request was a stereo, to replace the one he'd abandoned back at Bud's old place. He'd wanted something that could play cassette tapes and records. Never expected the expensive Hi-Fi W.B. bought him.

Hyde sprang off the cot. His stereo. Man, had he wrecked it? His focus shot to the bookshelf, but his stereo was safe, as were his records. He rarely thanked God for anything, and he didn't now. But he was damn grateful to himself. At least his mindless rage hadn't destroyed his tunes.

He'd knocked his small dresser to the floor, though. The drawers were hanging out, and clothes and miscellaneous possessions had spilled out. The armchair was flipped over, too, and the ottoman looked as if he'd kicked it a few dozen times.

The sight wasn't pretty, especially since he'd destroyed some of his favorite things—like his Sex Pistols poster and the framed picture of himself, Jackie, and Shade. But he far preferred the destruction to his silent, tear-shedding reaction to his father's—stepfather's fate.

Hyde's second request to W.B. had been to find Bud. W.B. hired a private investigator, and the answers he came back with weren't pleasant. Bud had changed his name to "Jim Franklin". He'd tried to escape his loan sharks, but they found him anyway. Bud "Jim Franklin" Hyde's body was discovered in the Chicago River, wedged inside a culvert.

Freakin' Chicago, man, where Jackie was headed. Hyde picked up his dresser in an attempt to clean up, but thinking about her sent fresh anger into his body. He shoved the dresser onto its other side, and it crashed to the floor again. The middle right-side drawer splintered. He slammed his boot into it and broke the drawer completely.

None of this had to be, damn it. His third request to W.B., made just a few days ago, could've stopped her. Hyde could've stopped her without a too-early proposal being part of the deal.

Jackie's college scholarships hadn't come through. Her trust fund had kept her afloat when her parents no longer had an income. But after her mother came back from Mexico, Pam was in so much debt that Jackie paid it off and depleted the rest of her trust fund.

Hyde snatched one of his dress shirts from the floor. He looked for something sharp to shred it with but found nothing. He plunked down on the ottoman instead and bent over his knees. His hands clasped together behind his neck, and he shut his eyes. Jackie had done the same as him, tried to protect a parent who didn't deserve it. And now Hyde's inaction had led them to here.

He'd been waiting for the right time, man. The right approach. W.B. had agreed to pay for Jackie's college, but that pride of hers—Hyde wasn't sure if she'd accept W.B.'s cash. She always claimed to be a gold digger, but she'd become something else under Hyde's influence. Proof of that was her unceasing motto to him: "If it makes you happy, then I'm happy."

Even if it involved him covered in car grease.

She seemed most at ease when he followed his own interests. That was the damn key. What would make her happiest?

She didn't know it, but Hyde's waffling had come down to that question: what would make Jackie happiest? He wasn't worried about his own life turning to crap. Her life was the one he didn't want to screw up.

With her financial means to go to college gone, she'd become too focused on him. He'd wanted her to concentrate on her own future, not theirs— because if they were gonna work out, they'd work out.

Hyde maneuvered around his fallen furniture and dropped onto his cot. He had no energy left to fix up his room or take off his clothes. Not even his boots. The lumpy mattress pushed into his side, but he closed his eyes. A storm still thundered inside his brain, but after a while, he couldn't tell which were his thoughts and which were dreams.

In the morning, the first thing he focused on was a brown paper bag. His stash. He'd tossed it onto the floor. Maybe smoking would clear his head because a new question clogged it: would Jackie be better off with him or on her own?

A necessary trip to the bathroom emptied his bladder but not his doubts. A circle was definitely needed, and he got as comfortable as he could in his trashed room. He righted the armchair, sat down, and indulged deeply into stash, smoking bowl after bowl until his question dissolved into vapor.

No answer was waiting for him once he came down. His THC-saturated neurons had come up with a killer idea for a movie, but the plot didn't involve a hot, loudmouth brunette. Just a bunch of chase sequences and badass explosions.

Next on his list to try: alcohol. His parents' favorite go-to solution. Red's buddy owned a beer warehouse, and the buddy's son brought Hyde and his friends for a visit. They spent all afternoon and night drinking Schlitz and Amber Ale, but Hyde's memory of it was fuzzy. He woke up the next morning in his still-wrecked room. His head pounded, but it was also—finally—very clear.

He dragged himself to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was only a few steps outside his door. He downed aspirin, and he let it work before attempting to leave the basement. The after-effects of his binge were freakin' righteous. Even with his shades on, keeping his eyes open was a struggle, and his mouth tasted like death. But at long last his road, as forked as it was, had a which-way sign.

His stomach rumbled, sounding a lot like Shade's purring. He managed to climb the stairs and ate a satisfactory brunch of cereal in the kitchen. The pounding in his head had abated, but sensitivity still plagued his body. Preparing a substantial meal would've taken too much effort.

He went to the living room afterward and half-collapsed on the couch. Forman was already sitting there and watching TV, watching being the operative word. The volume had been turned completely down.

"Hangover?" Hyde said.

Forman leaned his head back on the couch. "Ohhh, yeah."

A smile threaded across Hyde's lips. Last night must've been some kind of bender. Forman was paler than usual, and Hyde could've easily fallen back asleep. He was already practically lying down. All he had to do was shut his eyes, but he looked at his watch instead.

The big hand was inching toward the number twelve. The time startled him, but only his mouth reacted. "Well," he said, "it's almost noon. Guess I gotta go talk to Jackie."

"Nothing like waiting 'til the last minute," Forman said.

"Yeah... she'll appreciate that."

"What are you gonna tell her?

A round, yellow pillow was stuck beneath Hyde's arm. He made a feeble attempt to move it. "That I'm gonna make her miserable."

"So you're saying no?"

"Nope."

Forman didn't seem to know what to make of his answer, and Hyde mustered a laugh. He probably sounded nuts, and he felt a little nuts. Getting hitched had never been in his life-plan, but neither had everything else Jackie opened him up to.

"Steven?" Mrs. Forman appeared from the kitchen with a white envelope. "Jackie stopped by and asked me to give you this note."

She passed the envelope into Hyde's hands. Its heaviness made him sit up. Something besides paper was inside. He opened the envelope and pulled out the note—and a pair of keys on a key chain.

Steven, the note began. No pleasantries. None of her usual scribbled hearts. Just, "Steven". His heart began to pound as his head had earlier, but he leaned forward and continued reading.

It's clear you've made your decision, so I've made mine. By the time you read this, I'll be in Chicago.

He stopped reading. His mouth felt dry. He swallowed a few times to moisten it.

Please bring Shade over to Donna's. She's agreed to take him in, but I had no time to get him there. All of his things are packed and ready to go. I left a copy of the house keys for you in the envelope.

I love you, but I also love myself. Since you don't want a future with me, a life, I have to forge ahead on my own. You're free now. Please, don't waste that freedom.

—Jackie

Hyde's body grew stiff. His fingers were like brittle twigs, and they held the note in a kind of stasis. Her keys dangled from his pinky, which he kept very still. If he moved it, he feared the finger would snap off. His tongue, too, had become a husk, but he managed to say, "Guess she took the job in Chicago, and she left this morning."

"Oh, you poor baby," Mrs. Forman said. She seemed on the verge of crying, but that was the last thing he needed.

He looked over the note again, making sure he hadn't missed anything. Then he stood up.

"Where are you going?" Forman said.

"Got somethin' to do."

Fluidity and speed returned to Hyde's rigid, sluggish limbs. He slammed the kitchen's swinging door open and raced down to the basement. The set of keys clutched in his hand weren't enough. They were Jackie's, and he needed his own. He grabbed his denim jacket off the coat rack, and two minutes later, he was in the Camino, burning pavement.

Jackie had folded. Steven should have shown his cards long before noon, but he'd let his absence speak for itself. By ten a.m., she was out of the game.

Accepting the TV station job went smoothly. The hiring producer had retained his enthusiasm for her, but her day quickly became a farce. First, she discovered the Lincoln was missing. Her mother had taken it to Tijuana. Why? Because Jackie had told her last night about—possibly—moving to Chicago. So her mother left to go "cope".

Then Shade, as if sensing Jackie's impending departure, had an accident. He left a dirty little present on her living room's pristine white carpet. That wasn't like him at all. He was always so clean, to the point of being obsessive. Normally, he took several minutes covering his doings in the litter box. He even scraped the bathroom tile outside the box, as if it would conceal the lingering smell.

Jackie cleaned up his mess off the rug as best she could. She also considered leaving it in the envelope for Steven, but he clearly thought little of her. The sentiment would be lost on him.

She spent a tearful fifteen minutes cuddling Shade. Leaving him was a horrible part of this, but she trusted Steven to keep him safe. Steven might have fallen out of love with her, but he still loved their cat.

All she had left to do was deliver the note. Doing so should have been simple, giving the envelope to one of the Formans and leaving. But Mrs. Forman kept Jackie in the kitchen and cried on her shoulder about stupid Eric leaving for Africa. If he'd just shown up at his damn wedding to Donna, they could've gone to Madison together liked they planned. But, no. Eric had to wimp-out, like all men did.

Jackie eventually extricated herself from Mrs. Forman. Seeing Steven was not in her plan, but with every sob Mrs. Forman let loose, Jackie feared he'd come into the kitchen. Fortunately, that didn't happen, and she escaped the Formans' house without another bruise on her heart.

She marched over to Michael's apartment afterward. She banged on the door until he opened it. He looked terrible, hungover, but she demanded his car. He said he couldn't drive, which was fine. She still had enough emotional control to drive herself.

He washed his face, got dressed, and wrote a quick note for Fez. His garage wasn't too far away from the apartment, but once they were outside, he walked too slowly for Jackie's mood. She jabbed him in the back to hurry up.

"Damn, Jackie!" He scowled; then he slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I missed this."

She shrugged him off. "Stop it, Michael!"

But her ire seemed to make him happier. "I'm so glad you're moving to Chicago. Now I'll have someone to do it with when I get bored of seeing Betsy."

Get bored? Jackie looked up at the sky. It was overcast with clouds, gray. Michael's brain must've been the same inside, fogged over with clouds. How could he get bored of seeing his child? Did he not know how lucky he was to have a family?

"Yeah, visiting her and Brooke is great," he continued, "but it's not always easy finding a hot pair of legs. And Brooke's dating some doctor, so having you around's gonna—"

"Ugh. Just because I'm not with Steven anymore doesn't mean you get a free ride to me."

"But I'm giving you a free ride. That's gotta count for something."

She slapped his chest, and that silenced him until they got to the garage. He warned her about his car's idiosyncrasies, but she waved him off. No car had more quirks than Steven's, and she handled it just fine.

Michael's red MG Midget gave her no trouble. It drove smoothly under her deft control, but she could've used some help navigating. Michael had unfolded her map and put it over himself as a blanket. Then he promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat.

A few wrong turns cost them a half-hour, but they arrived in Chicago. Her new boss had offered to put her up in a motel while she found her footing. She'd accepted, and while the Travel Inn had no luxuries, it was located in a decent neighborhood—and close to the TV station, too.

Michael carried her bags to the concierge building. She expected him to leave, but he waited around while she checked in. He also carried her bags to building "A" and to her room.

"Aren't you supposed to be at Brooke's by now?" Jackie said.

Michael was busy putting one of her suitcases on the suitcase rack. He didn't look at her and said, "Nah. I got twenty minutes to get there."

"You should get going."

"Look, Jackie..." he peered up at her and grasped her hand, "I know it's scary movin' to a new city all by yourself—"

"I'm fine," she said but clutched his hand to her stomach. Once hewas gone, she'd be truly alone.

"I'm gonna come back here after I see Betsy, okay? The concierge gave me a key to your room."

"He did? Why the hell did he do that?"

Michael grinned. "'Cause I asked him to when you weren't payin' attention. Told him I was your boyfriend."

"Michael!" She thrust his hand away, but she was grinning, too. "Okay, you can come back."

"Awesome." He picked up a pen from the room's desk and wrote something down on the matching pad of paper. "Here's Brooke's number. I'll tell her about you. I'm sure she'll show you around Chicago and stuff. And if you French her out of gratitude, get someone to take a picture."

Jackie sighed, but she also took the number. "Thank you. Now get going."

"Are you sure you'll be okay—"

"I'm fine," she repeated, but her eyes stung, and her face was growing flush. Michael needed to leave. "If you're late for your visit with Betsy," she said, "Brooke won't think of you when she breaks up with her doctor-boyfriend. Because you know it's inevitable. Relationships just don't work."

"Oh, man... I could totally be her rebound!" He raised his arms in victory, "Hot rebound sex. I can't miss out on that!" and rushed to the door, but he stopped short of leaving. "Call me if you're—"

"Go!"

Michael finally listened and left. He shut the front door, and Jackie dashed to the bathroom. She inhaled shaky breaths and tried to calm herself. If only she could shed her skin as easily as she shed tears, but her legs gave out. She crumpled to the cold tile floor and burst into crying loud enough to echo off the walls.