8. Jackson
JACKSON
As Stone heads into the dressing room to get ready, I tell myself I’ve lasted this long. I’ve made it through three months on the job fighting my way through this desire. I can make it longer till it fades away.
Trouble is, he’s easy to talk to. He’s fun to hang out with. He’s charismatic and incredibly sexy.
I’ve got to protect myself. That’s why I don’t ever dive too deep and I don’t ever reveal too much about myself.
I have to hold something back. If I start talking to him on more than this now I zing you, now I don’t level, I might risk developing feelings for him.
Right now, this is only attraction.
I’ve managed it. I’ve managed it the entire damn time I’ve worked for him.
Eventually, it’ll disappear.
It has to.
Later that week, we arrive in New York. As we’re walking toward the security exit, I scan the airport, my eyes landing on a handful of photographers on the other side of the gate. “There’s a bunch of paps up ahead. They’re going to want to take pictures of you as you leave security.”
Stone’s green eyes twinkle with mischief as he tugs his ball cap lower. “Ten bucks says the shot they use is of you and me.”
I blink. “Why would they use that?”
He laughs. “Dude. You think they haven’t run shots of us before?”
“They have?” I ask, since I’m not on social media, and I only google the pics that show up of Stone, never Stone Zenith and his bodyguard .
“Oh, yes. The internet thinks you’re pretty much hotter than Gaga’s bodyguard, and that guy is smoking.”
Well, yeah, he is. But . . .
I try to wrap my head around this. “So you’ve seen these pics of us?”
He shoots me a salacious look. “I have indeed. The camera loves us, J.”
Evidently, the camera does.
Because the next day, that’s exactly what the tabloids run. A shot of Stone and me is flashed across Twitter and Instagram with captions like But have you seen Stone Zenith’s bodyguard?
I find this out because my sister sends me a text, showing me a picture.
I click it open, the pic of Stone wearing his baseball cap, me next to him, walking out of the airport.
Damn. That is a good shot. Maybe in some other world, in some other life, that could have been the two of us.
He could have been this guy that I was going on a trip with.
Traveling around the world with.
Having fun with.
I close my eyes.
You stupid idiot.
You two are not going to be a thing.
It’s just a photo of two dudes. One of us is gay, one of us is bi, but that’s it.
We’re worlds apart.
The next day we’re walking along 58th Street after an appearance on a talk show when a redhead in high-heeled boots cheetahs her way over to Stone, her eyes lasered in on him, like she’s going to launch herself at the man.
I put my arm around his shoulders, jerking him out of the way, pulling him into the doorway of a nearby hotel.
A vein in his neck pulses. “Damn, you’re fast.”
“That’s what you want, right?” I let go of him.
“Yeah, I do. Holy shit. You’ve got ninja moves.” He brushes his hands down his jeans.
That makes me smile. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Can you just do that again?”
I arch a brow, unsure what he’s getting at. “What do you mean?”
He’s breathing out hard, but then he smacks my arm playfully. “I mean, maybe you should be auditioning for the next action movie,” he says, but it’s almost like he meant it in another way, like he wanted me to pull him into the doorway for another reason.
So I could yank him against me.
So he could feel my body pressed to his.
So we could grab at each other, pressing savage kisses to lips and jaws and necks.
So hands could roam and explore, mapping all that hard, rough terrain of him and me.
But that’s insane to imagine.
I’m reading too much into an offhand remark. A thoroughly Stone-esque comment.
I shove it all the way out of my mind and into another time zone.