One time only, p.7
One Time Only, page 7
I smile. I can’t not. I feel the grin inside my soul. “Thank you. A million times, thank you.”
He gives an it’s nothing shrug, then asks, “So you paid your own way through college?”
I nod, proud of that accomplishment. “I did. Went to UCLA, took out loans, studied music. And paid off all my loans and then some—funded a scholarship for kids with dickhead parents.”
Jackson cracks up, a big, hearty laugh. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Indeed. Named it myself.”
“Did you really start a scholarship?”
My tone turns serious, because I take it that way. “I did. It’s for students who need financial help. Pays the way for several kids a year to study music. So there, Dad,” I say, flipping the bird to my father in California.
He claps my shoulder, and that momentary touch sends a spark through me. “Proud of you, man. That’s awesome.” When his hand drops, I immediately wish he’d put it on me again.
But I let go of that wish and return to the conversation. “And how’s Bethany? Did you hang out with her?”
“I did. Took her out for a London Fog this morning.” Jackson parts his lips like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
I shoot him a curious stare. “What did you just not say?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, his eyes not meeting mine.
“C’mon. You were about to say something.”
He draws a deep breath, like he needs extra air for his next few words. “Want to see a picture of her? From this morning?”
I light up. I’m an arcade game hitting a high score. “Hell yeah. I want it, and I want it now.”
The smile that tugs at his lips is endearing. I want to steal that smile and keep it in my collection. I want to hide it in my pocket and take it out when I need a jolt of happiness.
He reaches for his phone, slides his thumb across the screen, and shows me his camera roll. A girl with pink hair and a cool AF nose ring has wedged herself next to Jackson, smushed her cheek to his, and is grinning at the camera. And this man—he’s smiling too. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before, the kind that only family can put on your face.
I stare at the image, then at him, then back at the image. “I. LOVE. THIS. PICTURE.”
“Yeah?”
“I love it so much that it’s going to be my next song.”
“You’re writing a song about a picture?”
“Yes. I’ll call it . . . ‘Pictures of You.’”
He laughs. “The Cure beat you to that, man.”
“‘Photograph’?”
“Hello? Heard of Ed Sheeran?”
“‘Picture This’?” I’m spurred on by the way he can keep up in this musical game.
“Blondie.” He slams his hand on an imaginary buzzer, making a loud squawk. “Try again.”
I stare at the ceiling of the plane, like the answer is up there, then I snap my gaze back to him. Taking my time. Letting a new title roll around in my mouth, take shape on my tongue, till I know, just know, it feels right. “‘The Guy in the Picture.’”
His jaw goes slack. The lightness in his eyes disappears. A hint of intensity flickers across his irises. “Yeah, that’s a good title.”
I think I might have just told Jackson I’m going to write a song about him. Yeah, that’s not coming on strong at all.
Time to slide back onto Platonic Lane. “So, you saw Bethany. Had some London Fogs. Did you discuss Imagine Dragons?”
“And Rent. And boys.”
I arch a brow. “That sounds like an interesting conversation.”
He mimes zipping his lips. “I’m not going to tell you a word my sister said.”
Nudging his side with my elbow, I dip my voice. “But what about you? I kind of want to know what you said about boys.”
The look he deals me is searing. His eyes are hot, flashing with “It was hard for me to resist you too.” Or maybe I’m reading into them. Maybe thirty days of solo sessions with my hand are making me a little horny.
Or a lot.
Maybe I’m shit at the platonic zone with Captain Mostly Stoic, since I’m more like the King of Dirty Flirting with him. “What did you say about boys? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“You’re not going to get a word of that from me.”
His answer is a little playful, and I can’t resist it. “That’s okay. I don’t really want to know what you think about boys. I’m much more interested in what you think about . . . men.” I say it in a hot, dirty whisper and leave it to float in the air between us.
His answer comes low, like a waft of smoke. “You already know how I feel about men. And about one man in particular.”
I am hot everywhere. Every inch of my body. Every ounce of my blood. Just like that, I want to lay waste to the detox, slide my hand across his face, drag a thumb over that perfect jaw, and slam my mouth to his. I want my hands all over my bodyguard. My lips everywhere.
I draw a sharp breath, run a hand through my hair, and whisper, “You’re so damn lucky we’re surrounded by people.”
“Why’s that, Stone?” he asks, innocent, but not at all.
“Because if we weren’t, I would do bad things to you.”
He gives a low, soft chuckle. “I believe we’ve established it’s the other way around.”
“What-the-fuck-ever. I don’t care about roles. Never have. Never will,” I say, my words low. Thank God for the ambient noise of the plane so no one can hear us. We’re in a vacuum of sound here. “None of that matters to me. I’m one hundred percent vers. Wait. Make that one hundred ten percent. You can top me every damn time if you want, but I would still do bad things to you. I would drive you crazy from the bottom. I promise I would.”
The wild look in his eyes tells me everything. This thing between us isn’t going away so easily.
It’s not subject to detox.
It exists in its own land, plays by its own rules.
Jackson raises a hand, reaches for his neck, and rubs his thumb along the side of it. “That does not surprise me. Not one single bit.”
But I surprise myself with what I do next.
I don’t push the dirty talk.
I don’t push, because I’m worried about this guy.
This is not the first or the second or even the third time he’s tried to work out the tension in his neck. And it’s not just in his neck. He holds his shoulders like they’re in a vise.
“J,” I say with concern.
He must hear it; his tone adjusts too. “What’s up?”
“You okay? Are you going through something? I feel like you seem all full of tension. A lot.”
Jackson shakes his head quickly. “Don’t worry about me. Are you ready for everything in Vegas? You psyched about this residency?”
He’s avoiding the topic. I know it. But I also don’t know if he’s ready to let me in on the truth. So I answer that I’m thrilled that my team inked the deal with The Extravagant for a two-week gig. Turns out my one-night-only show went over so well that they wanted to bring me back, and I couldn’t be more excited.
I’ve spent the last few years kicking around, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do after I won a ton of Grammys for my best-reviewed and best-received album ever. I took some time off from touring, traveled around the world to Indonesia and Vietnam, to India and Greece, funded some orphanages, donated gobs of money to charities aiming to save the ocean and the rain forests—everything that matters to me.
And when I returned stateside, the music roared back, like turning on a fountain. My new album uncorked itself in mere weeks.
God, I love the muses and their mysterious ways.
“I’m stoked to keep playing the new tunes,” I say. “And I love Vegas. Zane will be in town to see a few shows and hang out with some of his friends. My grandma lives in Vegas, so he’ll stay with her, and I’ll see him soon.”
Jackson’s lips curve in a playful grin. “But you won’t be seeing the fictional sister.”
I laugh. “No. My imaginary sister won’t be there. But you can meet my real brother.”
He gives me a satisfied nod. “I look forward to that.”
“And maybe someday I’ll meet your real sisters.”
He’s quiet for a minute, then he answers in a tone that warms my heart. “Maybe you will.”
And since it feels like we had a moment—hell, this whole flight has been one big moment—I clap his shoulder. “You sure there isn’t anything in particular that’s getting to you?”
Jackson draws a breath, almost like he’s considering whether he wants to tell me, then he shakes his head. “Nothing important. Just some things I need to sort out. Some things from the past.”
“The past,” I say, kind of wanting to know the entire history of him. “Do you have a dark and secretive past?”
“I have to untangle some things, that’s all. You know how it goes. Well, maybe you don’t. But sometimes you’ve got to clean up the mistakes you’ve made. Make sense?”
“Yeah, it does,” I say, since that’s a whole helluva lot this private man just gave me. And I’m going to accept it for the gift it is. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“I will.”
I’m confident that’s pretty much all I’m going to get out of him, but I take it as a positive sign. He just shared more about himself with me than he ever has before.
But wait. Why am I looking for positive signs?
What do I want his opening up to be a positive sign of? I don’t entirely know.
Except . . . Jackson makes me want to do things differently. Behave in atypical ways. Is my drive to turn over a new leaf born from the attraction? Or does it stem from something else entirely?
I’d like to know.
I’d like to understand exactly why I did what I did for the last month.
When we reach Sin City and slide into my waiting limo, just the two of us, I’m still trying to sort out this tangled ball of feelings, wishes, and choices.
But one thing is crystal clear—I want Jackson Pearce to know I was a man of my word.
So I tell him.
10
Stone
As the car speeds away from the airport, I take the first step toward sorting out this mess inside my head. “I took what you said to heart.”
Jackson shoots me a curious look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I took a sex sabbatical.”
“I never said you needed to do that.”
I stretch my arms up, drawing a deep breath. “You didn’t say it, but I could read the subtext.”
He laughs. “You’re obsessed with subtext.”
“Aren’t you? Life is subtext, J. Everything is subtext. People don’t say what they mean.”
“Do you say what you mean?”
That’s a good question. And I can answer him with a whole hell of a lot of honesty now—now that my mind is all clear. “I think I do. I usually say what I mean.”
Jackson scratches his head then drags his hand over his jaw like he’s working through a puzzle. “Fine. Say what you mean now. What do you mean about your sex-batical?”
Nerves crawl up my throat, but I say the hard thing anyway. “What I mean is I wanted to prove something to myself.”
As soon as I say that out loud, another thread untangles. I didn’t go sex-free to prove it to him. I wanted to prove it to myself. Because of how I felt when I kissed this man. When I kissed him, I felt something.
I don’t mean emotions or love or any of that shit. But a connection. A need for more than a one-night stand. And I felt he wanted that too. I don’t think he’s the type of guy who wants a one-off.
And for the first time, I don’t want sex to fall into that category.
He takes a beat, like he’s turning over my statement, weighing it. “What did you want to prove?”
“That I could do it.”
“And you did.”
“One month. One long month to reset. I was sex-free, and it was okay.”
He gives a small laugh. “You lasted that long?”
“I jacked off several times a day. Maybe more. Not sure I can count that high.”
Jackson cracks up, shaking his head. “Dude, you’re really going at it that often with your hand?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s sex with someone I love.”
He scoffs, and it turns into a laugh. “You love yourself a lot.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that at all.” He holds out a fist for knocking. I dig the bro gesture, so I return it, knocking back.
Then my expression turns serious. “Listen, I respect what you said about how nothing is going to happen. I’m cool with that. But all those things you said that night about the private party and what I wanted made me think about who I’ve been and what I’ve done, and how I’ve kind of messed around wherever I wanted to. I don’t regret it. I’ve loved every second of it. But you made me think about things in a different way.”
“Knowing yourself is a good thing. Don’t you think?”
The limo turns a corner, the lights of the Strip flickering near us. I don’t want this ride to end. I wonder if he does.
“You made me think about a lot of things.” I take a deep breath and move a little closer, but not too close. “And one of those things is whether I’m paying enough attention to the people around me. That’s why I keep asking you if something is wrong—because you’ve looked like something’s bugging you ever since we got on that plane. So, is something bothering you?”
He leans back, resting his head against the leather seat and trying, I can tell, to school his expression. “Nothing is.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
He shoots me a glance. “I’m sure.”
I give him what I’m sure is an inviting grin. “I’m a good listener.”
His lips curve up. “Are you? A good listener?”
“I can’t believe you’re disparaging my listening skills.”
He laughs, light and easy. It’s a great sound, and I want to hear it again and again. “No,” he says. “Not at all. You’re surprising me. You’re a better listener than I gave you credit for. Hell, you knew I was learning Spanish.” He says something to me in that language.
I wag a finger. “I don’t know how you do it, but it’s still sexy, because everything you say is sexy.”
“That’s not true. People say that when they’re infatuated.”
I arch a brow all the way to the moon. “Ohhhhh. Is that how we’re doing this? You think I’m infatuated with you?”
Jackson shakes his head furiously. “No, that’s not it. That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean? I just poured my heart and soul out to you. I told you what I meant. Now, tell me what you meant. I’ve earned it. Haven’t I?”
“You have.”
He doesn’t say another word—just looks at me, lips tight, jaw set, his expression giving little away. Then he says, as quiet as a cat, “I lied.”
“What?” I flinch. I didn’t expect that from this straight arrow.
As the lights on the Strip loom closer, I hold up a finger to pause, then hit the window to the driver, lowering the partition. “Hey, Jason, can you drive for a little bit?”
“Of course, Stone. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thanks, man.”
The window goes back up, and Jackson doesn’t question my request. Doesn’t ask why I want to linger in the cool, air-conditioned stretch limo.
“What did you lie about?” I ask carefully.
His shoulders rise and fall.
He draws a deep breath, like he needs it for fuel. “I lied when I said that’s not what I meant about infatuation. I do mean it. I believe when we’re infatuated, we think everything the other person says or does is sexy. I do think you meant what you said.” There’s another pause, and it’s charged with crackling ions and electricity. “Maybe I mean it too.”
I try not to bust out in a shit-eating grin. But hell, that’s hot.
That’s sexy.
That’s worth driving around the whole city for.
“But . . .” That one word is a knife cutting through this conversation. “I need this job. You keep asking me what’s wrong. I don’t want to get into it, because I don’t have your life. I don’t have a private plane or a limo. I have responsibilities. And I can’t upend them just because you say things to me on a plane that get me so wildly aroused I can barely think straight. Because that’s how I feel with you.” He jerks his gaze to the window, like the night sustains his soliloquy. He turns back to look me in the eyes. His are etched with frustration. “And I can’t think when I feel this way.”
He drags his hand over his face, like he’s messed up. Like everything he’s said is a risky confession. And it is. I feel the weight of his words in my soul.
This can’t be easy for him.
He lowers his face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and heaves a sigh, and for one of the first times ever, I don’t simply do.
I think.
I take my time.
I don’t act on instinct and slide next to him. I don’t stretch my hand across to his neck and knead it.
I speak from the heart and the mind.
“I appreciate you saying that, Jackson. Appreciate you laying it on the line. I don’t know how to reassure you with anything but the truth. And it’s this—I will keep my hands off you. I will keep my dirty thoughts to myself. I will stop flirting, stop teasing you. Stop everything. I can do it. I did it for the last month. You know I did.”
He raises his face. “You did.”
“I don’t want to compromise you. I don’t want to risk your integrity. You’re amazing at your job. And I need you to know I would never fire you for what happened, and I would never fire you because I want you. And I would never fire you for what you just said. I’m not that kind of guy. Hell, I barely feel like the boss.”
A tiny smile curves his lips. “What do you feel like?”
