One time only, p.12
One Time Only, page 12
“Why is it hard?”
“Because it’s haircut day.”
I nod. I saw that on the agenda. He has an appointment in twenty minutes.
“You’re getting a trim?”
He shakes. “Nope. New look. Going short. Not as short as your hair, but I’m lopping off several inches.”
Huh.
I’ve only known him with a shoulder-length style. With this shaggy rocker hair that I’ve had my hands in. Tugged on. Felt falling through my fingers.
My skin heats up.
“Let’s get your haircut,” I say, a little gravelly. What else can I say? I can’t give voice to the other things.
I take out my phone, swipe my agenda to click on the location for the trim, and hear him clear his throat. I look up from my cell. “What?”
He beckons me farther into the suite. I follow him to the living room.
He runs his hands through his hair. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
The question comes out stitched with vulnerability. That’s unexpected. But then, I’m learning that a lot of him is, including this vulnerable side that he’s been showing me more and more. A side I kind of like. A lot.
“Your hair?” I ask, sticking to business.
“Yes. My hair. Do you like it?” He’s all earnestness.
I swallow roughly, answering truthfully. “You know I do.” I take a moment then ask the necessary follow-up. “But why are you asking?”
He steps closer, a couple of feet away from me now. His eyes are hard to tear my gaze from, so piercing and open today. “J, do you not want me to cut it?”
My skin prickles at the question—at the intensity and honesty in it. Like my opinion is the only one that matters. Like I’m his, and he’s mine, and he won’t cut his hair if I’m his man and I don’t want him to.
I purse my lips, saying nothing because the question has so much subtext to it. The question is all subtext. And subtext is all I want.
“I’ll leave it like this if you want me to,” he adds, voicing the unspoken. “If you don’t want me to cut it, I won’t.”
Then, out of nowhere, Stone curses up a storm. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.” He stalks to the couch, where he flops down, drops his head into his hands, and mutters, “I should never have promised Zane.”
I quirk a brow. “Promised him what?”
He shakes his head again, back and forth, groaning and moaning like a wounded cat. “I made a bet. An idiotic bet I’m already regretting.”
I laugh. “What was the bet?”
He raises his face, misery his companion. “Don’t laugh when I tell you.”
“When you say, ‘Don’t laugh,’ it guarantees that someone is going to laugh, Stone.”
“Please tell me you won’t laugh,” he begs, his eyes pleading like a puppy dog’s.
“I won’t laugh. What’s the deal?”
He frowns. “We made a bet for the rest of rehearsals and the two weeks of the show.” He waves a hand airily. “No . . . getting involved.”
I don’t laugh. I cough. I practically choke. I’m pretty much speechless. “Um, what’s the issue?”
“The issue is I’m asking if you like my hair. That’s the goddamn issue.”
My tone softens. “But we’re not involved. And we’re not getting involved. We already decided against that.”
He nods several times, like he’s reminding himself. “Right. Obviously. So it shouldn’t matter if you like my hair.”
My brow knits. “Okay, then you don’t need me to answer the hair question?”
“No.” But he lowers his face to his hands again, muttering, “Yes.”
My heart squeezes.
The man is a wreck.
A discombobulated ball of confusion and worry and vulnerability.
My protective instincts kick in, and I kneel in front of him. Regardless of his bet with his brother, the hair question matters.
And I can answer him without crossing a line for either one of us.
As much as I want to set a hand on his knee, squeeze it, reassure him, I don’t lean on the physical. I rely on words, gentling my voice. “I like your hair. I also think you’d be just as hot if it was short.”
His eyes are like sparklers on the Fourth of July. “You mean that?”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Of course I mean it. You’d be sexy with short hair. And you’d be sexy with old-school Bon Jovi–length hair, or a new shorter cut. You’d be sexy with a shaved head. With a buzz cut. With long hair. With wavy hair. With curly hair.”
Stone shudders. “I’m not a curly-haired dude.”
“I know. But the hair length doesn’t matter,” I say, and because he’s way out of sorts, I give him more. I take my time, weighing my words, but doling them out anyway. “If you’re asking if I’d still be attracted to you if your hair was shorter, the answer is this attraction isn’t going anywhere. And it’s not because of your hair.”
He breathes a huge sigh of relief and whispers, “Same. Wait, that’s not true. I mean, yes, it is true. But I just want to say, for the record, I really like your hair. I like it a lot. It’s so you. It’s the perfect length, all short and clean cut.” He makes a circular gesture to encompass all of me. “Everything. Everything you have, it’s just working. You are just so . . .” He reaches out and slides a hand over my chest, sending a hot rush of adrenaline through me.
I try to stay as still as I can as I give him a warning. “Stone.”
His voice dips to a low and dangerous register. “I know . . . I’ll stop.”
“You have a haircut to get to,” I whisper as a tremor works its way through my body.
“I do.”
But he doesn’t take his hand off me. I don’t want him to. I look down at his fingers splayed on my chest. “Why are you doing this?”
“I should stop.”
There is nothing in his voice that sounds like he’s going to stop. There is nothing in my voice that says I want him to.
I take his free hand, lift it up, and press a kiss to his palm. He trembles.
“You should, Stone,” I say quietly. But I don’t stop either. I draw his finger into my mouth, sliding it between my lips, sucking down to the end of his knuckle.
His jaw comes unhinged. “J, I think about that so much. All the time.”
I draw him deeper, swirling my tongue around him. My bones crackle with lust. “Me too,” I say around his finger. “Every night. Every morning.” I let go so I can run his finger along my bottom lip. “Want to taste you. Feel you in my throat.”
He tightens his grip on my chest, fisting the fabric of my shirt. “I have no words,” he whispers.
“Don’t need words.” I suck him back in, nice and tight, showing him what I want.
My eyes are locked with his the whole time.
We are teetering. This moment is tipping dangerously into something we swore we wouldn’t do again.
I want to pounce on him.
And I just might.
His phone buzzes with an alarm.
The haircut.
I shake off my desire as best I can. Let go of his finger.
Rise.
Offer him a hand to tug him up. He takes it. As he stands, his eyes glimmer with mischief. He stares at my crotch. “I turn you on.”
It’s a statement. Not a question.
I roll my eyes. “Wiseass. You know you turn me on. I was just talking about sucking your cock. If I didn’t have a raging erection, we’d have a bigger problem.”
A groan seems to rip from his chest. “There’s nothing problematic about that.”
I inch closer, lining my body up with his, bringing my face near his ear to that spot I love on his neck. “It is a problem, since you just swore me off for more than two weeks.”
“Did I?” Stone asks slyly.
I shake my head. “You swore off getting involved. Evidently, there is no one you won’t bet with. So, whether it’s sex or getting involved, it doesn’t matter.” I gesture to the bed. “You made your . . . bet.”
“And now I have to lie in it?”
This time, I do laugh.
And because I do have control, because I am disciplined, because I’m going to stick to the plan, I step away from him, not giving a flying fuck about my raging erection as I mutter, “Goddamn bet.”
He mutters it too as we leave for the barber.
17
Jackson
The cherry blossoms paint her skin beautifully, weaving down one trim arm.
Stone tells the stylist as much as she snips and clips his hair in a swank hipster barbershop in the basement of the hotel.
It’s closed right now. Or, really, it’s open only for him. Being a celebrity has its privileges.
She shifts around to bring the scissors to his other side, revealing her left arm now. Calligraphy dances down it too—ink that reads “I believe . . . in me.”
Stone glances from one arm to the next. “Damn, woman, you have some empowering ink.”
“Thank you,” she says, as she continues to work her magic on his hair.
On the leather couch a few feet away from them, I flip through a National Geographic magazine.
“They mean a lot to me,” she adds. “But then, that’s how ink should be, don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah. That’s how mine are.”
As I try to read an article on a new mutant hornet, I’m too distracted by this conversation to focus on the words.
“Why did you get the cherry blossoms?” Stone asks.
As she slides the scissors across a lock of his hair, she answers, “I lost my partner of eleven years. He died of a freak heart attack. He was only thirty-six.”
Stone’s hand goes to his heart over his smock. “Oh, Lola,” he says, and it registers that he knows her name already. “I’m so sorry for your loss. When did it happen? How are you doing?”
“I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking. It was three years ago. I got the cherry blossoms a year ago for hope. Not so much hope for new love, but hope for . . . not hurting.”
I stop pretending that I’m reading anything. I listen to every word.
“Do you hurt?” Stone asks.
She shakes her head. “Not every day. Not most days.”
My heart squeezes with sympathy pain, but the pain disappears quickly, and I want to say to her, “I know the feeling. I understand you completely.”
But I don’t need to say anything, because Stone has this covered. He gets this innately, I’m learning. “I’m glad you’re starting to heal. That’s a good thing.”
“Thank you. Now what about you?” With her free hand, she taps his arm. “Your ink is all over.”
He glances at his arms, as if he only just noticed that he has tattoos, matching circular swirls, all over his skin. “That’s a symbol for humility. This one is for grace. Another is for inspiration. You and me, we’re artists, right? We always need to be grateful for inspiration.”
She laughs, a sweet, pretty sound, like bells. “I’m an artist for hair.”
“Damn right you are,” he says.
“And I love those symbols. Those are good reminders.”
“Also, I have stars right here.” He points to his hip. I lower my face, fighting a grin. I’ve touched those stars. I’ve run my thumb over them. “They remind me that the world is big. The universe, the galaxy—we need to be aware of all of it.”
They talk more about ink as he names all the other ones on his body.
But he never once mentions the musical notes.
I try not to let my heart gallop away from me, but I love that he kept that one secret.
That I’m the only other person in this room who knows about it.
She finishes snipping his hair, and he looks good.
Sexy as hell, just like I predicted.
She stretches for the clippers on her counter to smooth over the ends. When she’s done, she turns off the clippers and reaches for a soft brush, the kind used to swipe off hair on the neck.
Before she can start, her phone beeps.
She glances at it on the counter. “Sorry, sweetie. That’s my daughter. She’s eight. I need to grab this right now. Is that okay?”
He gestures for her to go ahead. “Of course. I’m good.”
Setting down the brush, she holds up a finger, answers the phone, listens, then whispers, “Give me two minutes. I’ll clean you up then.”
She steps around the corner into a back room of the barbershop.
It’s just us.
Stone glances at me in the mirror like he’s waiting for a verdict.
I rise from the couch. “Haircut looks good.”
Green eyes twinkle at me from his reflection. “You like it?”
“I do. A lot,” I say, my throat going dry again. I eye the brush she left in front of the mirror. That’s hardly a risk. I can handle that. So can he. “Let me finish that up for you.”
His lips curve into a crooked grin. “Yeah?”
I move by his side, reach for the brush, then walk behind him. “Yes.”
I swipe the brush across the back of his neck, dusting off the fine hairs.
He laughs lightly.
“Are you ticklish?”
“A little.”
“Where else?”
“Belly.”
“Good to know,” I say, meeting his gaze in the mirror, giving him a watch out look.
“Are you going to tickle me sometime?”
“You never know.”
“I’ll consider this my warning.”
I brush the last strands of hair from his neck. There’s nothing left for me to clean up, but I don’t stop. I clear my throat. “If you ever need the hairline cleaned up, like right here,” I say, swiping along the ends of his hair, “I can do it.”
“You cut hair?”
“I was a Marine. I know my way around clippers.”
“You’d do that?”
“If you wanted,” I say softly.
“I would.” In the mirror, I glance at his reflection. He sighs and closes his eyes, looking serene.
Stone Zenith is beautiful, and it steals my breath.
I set my other hand on his shoulder to steady myself.
Slowly, barely thinking, just moving, I swipe the soft bristles along his neck, under his ear. “Just making sure I get it all.”
“It’s good to be thorough with a haircut.”
It’s so intimate, touching him this way. Makes me feel like I’m taking care of him.
Something I like to do. It fits who I am.
But with him, that’s a dangerous feeling.
Because it’s not going to happen. Even when he raises his arm and slides his fingers through mine. My gaze drifts down. He clasps my fingers, and my chest flips. Warmth spreads through me as he squeezes and I squeeze back.
I stop swiping. I’m done with his hair, was done a while ago. I’m touching him because I can. Because this is my one chance. My God, I wish I were the one who’d cut his hair, the one who’d stop by his room to give him a massage before a show, the one who’d tie his tie if he wore one.
I wish I could do all that.
I curl my hand tighter into his shoulder. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to brush my lips against his neck, to inhale him, to run my hand across this short hair that is so damn sexy, so very him.
But this is already enough for today. Especially when the click-clack of shoes sounds on the tiled floor, and I release him instantly before Lola turns the corner.
I step away, snagging some necessary distance, setting the brush on the counter.
“You finished the cleanup,” Lola says with surprise, but also delight.
“Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I appreciate the help.” She surveys his neck. “Nice work.”
“He does good work,” Stone weighs in, catching my gaze in the mirror, holding it, making it impossible for me to look elsewhere when his piercing green eyes pin mine. “He has very good hands.”
The warmth disappears.
In its place is heat.
Need.
Longing.
But it’s a longing that won’t be satisfied.
This will be the hardest few weeks of my life.
Because I do have good hands, and I want them all over him, and nothing has changed that.
Not his bet. Not this day. Not the last week.
Fact is, in the last hour, my need for him has only intensified.
I want him more than I did before.
I want him in a deeper way.
The only thing that’s going to get me through this concert series is knowing that I’m taking a few days off when it ends.
I need to get away from him.
Need it for my sanity—sanity that’s hanging by a thread.
18
Stone
Zane is still working, and my stomach is not okay with that. My belly grumbles as I check the latest message from him.
Zane: One more quick run-through.
Stone: Quick run-through? Your run-throughs aren’t quick.
Zane: You want this thing to go right, don’t you?
Stone: Of course I do. Take all the time in the world. I’ll just gnaw on the leg of this poker table while I wait.
Zane: Awesome. Be sure to get pics. The paps will love that. Anyway, I should be done in a half hour, and I’ll meet you somewhere then.
I groan as I slump against the wall by the high rollers lounge. “It’s official. I’m going to die.”
“We all are,” Jackson deadpans. “Welcome to the club.”
I tug on my eyelids, the lower ones. “Check my pupils. Can you tell if the starvation madness is setting in? Zane can’t meet me for dinner yet.”
He peers at my eyes. “Seems it set in . . . right around age fourteen.”
“What the . . .?” I pretend to be aghast, but then I am curious how he picked that age. “Why do you say fourteen?”
“I’m guessing that’s when you became a tad dramatic,” he offers dryly. “I mean, give or take a few years. But I’m betting on puberty as the onset.”
