15. Stone
STONE
“What the hell are you doing in Vegas already?” I swing open the door and wrap my crazy-ass brother in a big hug. “I didn’t expect to see you for a few more days.”
Zane wraps his arms around me as I give a quick hello to Cruz. “Hey, Cruz,” I say to the sturdy guy watching the door. “How’s it going?”
“No complaints. Good to see family, isn’t it?”
“Hell yes,” I say with a huge smile, bringing Zane in harder.
When we let go, Zane knocks fists with Cruz. “How you doing? It’s been a while. How’s your little girl?”
“Isabella’s four now. I can barely keep up with her when I’m home in LA,” Cruz says with a grin.
“Show me pics soon?”
“Absolutely,” he says, and I pull my brother into my suite.
“How the hell are you?” I ask as the door closes.
He lets out a long stream of air. “I had to get out of town. Hitched a ride early.”
“You drove from San Fran?”
“No. Grabbed a cheap flight. Got out of Dodge.”
“Cheap flight? Like that explains you showing up early?” I lead him into the suite. “Spill the beans.”
His green eyes, the same shade as mine, roam me up and down. “Want to put on some clothes?”
I glance at my towel and do the only reasonable thing—rip it off and drop it on the floor. “You show up in my suite and tell me to put clothes on? Dude, do not make me hug you again.”
He cringes, laughing, then covers his eyes. “Do not, under any circumstances, hug me now.”
“Aww. Poor Zane. Can’t handle his big brother having a bigger dick.”
“Can’t handle you showing me your dick,” he says, but he’s still laughing, and that’s a good sign for the situation.
Crossing the room to the bureau, I grab a pair of boxer-briefs and tug them on. “Can’t handle the awesomeness of my dick, you mean.”
I return to the living room, flop down on the couch, and cross my feet at the ankles up on the coffee table. I pat the cushion next to me. “Sit. Divulge.”
Zane sinks into a heap, like the air’s leaked out of him.
I scoot closer, squeezing his lanky shoulder. “What’s the story, morning glory?”
“Dad. He’s going at me again. My last gig ended when the TV season ended,” he says, referring to the Webflix show he worked on recently.
“Right. Sure.”
“He gave me the ‘join the construction business’ talk again.”
“Ah, yes. Word on the street is he needs an electrician,” I say wryly, because we’ve heard it all before.
“He wants to retire,” Zane says, getting in on the act.
“He’s pushing sixty-five, you know,” we both say in unison, and thank fuck we can laugh about it or my little brother might cry.
“This time it’s different. I think he’s serious.” He slides a hand through his wavy hair. “I don’t know what to do. I’m in between gigs, and I hate turning him down.”
I scoff. “You’re a licensed electrician because you work lights for stage shows and TV. But what you really are is a lighting designer.”
“Right. But I’m not like you. I don’t make a regular living from it. How do I just say no?”
That’s an excellent question.
I noodle on it for a few minutes, then in a flash of brilliance, I see an out. A temporary one, but still an out, if he’ll agree to it. “Work with me.”
He blinks. “What?”
I sit up straighter, excitement blasting through my cells.
“Work with me. My residency here is only two weeks long. I know you don’t want to ride on my coattails, but you’re in town already.
We’ll get you a room here, and you can work the lights—we’ve got another week of rehearsal, so you can help prep.
It’ll give you some breathing room, and while we’re here, we’ll get you introduced to anyone you need to know on the Strip.
The Carmichaels are great—they’ve got contacts.
Nadia owns the football team, and she knows peeps.
Let’s have you do the show, and we will network the hell out of you. ”
He hums, as if he’s giving this some thought. But not for long. A huge grin spreads across his face seconds later. “You sure? I don’t want to mess things up for you again.”
I make a pshaw sound. “You didn’t mess anything up. You fell for a girl, she fell for you, and it didn’t work out. Shit happens. We move on.”
“Dude,” he says, his grin painted all over his face. “For real? I would love that.”
“Yes, for real. Just make me a deal—no falling in love with the opening act. Zoe is off-limits. No falling in love with anyone who works with me.”
He lifts his palm and straightens his spine. “I solemnly swear I will keep it locked up. My heart. Dick too. But you know me—my dick follows my heart.”
I rap my knuckles against his sternum. “Your soft marshmallow heart.”
Zane laughs, then throws his arms around me. “I love you like a brother.”
I laugh. “Dude. Same.”
“Also, you have a marshmallow heart too,” he says when we separate.
“Maybe I do.”
And maybe that soft heart seems to get a little mushier around a certain six-foot-four Adonis.
That gives me an idea.
A brilliant idea.
The solution to my two-track brain. “I’ll take the plunge with you.” I raise my hand in a Scout’s honor oath as well. “Care to make a friendly wager?”
“What’s the wager?”
“Neither one of us gets involved from now till the show ends. A week of rehearsals and the two-week gig. Neither one of us falls in love. If either does, I owe you one of my Grammys.”
“You think I want your Grammy?”
I roll my eyes. “You can sell it on eBay, dickhead.”
“I don’t want anything from you but respect. I want to prove to you that I won’t mess up your show.”
“And I want to prove I have faith in you. So, I’m taking the no-love plunge.”
“Brothers-in-arms,” he says, and we shake on it.
This is what I need. Accountability. Someone I can make a promise to.
Real stakes to resist Jackson.
And a chance for my brother to wriggle away from a bad influence in the form of our dad.
“You’re on. We will have our hearts in lockdown,” he says. Then he eyes my hair, flicking his fingers at it. “But what’s up with the hair? You’re growing it out?”
I pat the back of my head. “It’s a little longer than the last time I saw you. I’m still fuck-hot.”
“Remember the tour where you had your best reviews? Your hair was shorter.”
I send a text to my assistant asking her to schedule a haircut for me tomorrow.
Stat.
As I lift my chai at lunch with Nadia the next day, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Zane is already working with the tech crew, the early run-through of my songs was flawless, and this second detox is definitely going to keep me in tip-top shape for the two-week run.
I give my friend the basics. “Plus, I’m going to be focused AF. Last night, I even swore to Zane I wouldn’t fall in love.”
She chuckles, then takes a sip of her coffee. “But that should be easy. You’ve never been in love, Stone.”
“That is true. Stone by name, heart of stone by nature,” I say, then furrow my brow. “Was that too easy a promise to make? Should I have thrown down harder?”
“You tell me. Was it?”
I give a casual shrug. “Nah. It’s going to be a piece of cake.”
But her dark eyes stay locked on mine, like she’s studying me. “Is there someone you’re going to miss for the next few weeks?”
I haven’t told her about Jackson. Haven’t told anyone. Why would I? There’s nothing to tell. And I’m not a kisser and teller. Or a sucker and teller.
I scoff. “Nope. I’m free as a bird.”
And I feel that way until Jackson walks into my suite that afternoon for his shift, and seeing him reminds me that this—resisting him—is what’s truly hard. Because, hell, I just like the guy.
That is becoming its own massive problem.