19. Jackson
JACKSON
The theater is packed every night.
The show is epic every time.
And the star is mobbed after every performance.
I don’t work every show, but when I do, all my focus is on Stone, making sure fans don’t grab his shirt, touch his ass, or get too close. I don’t worry about them stealing his phone, because I keep it on me during the shows, and after too, when he does the VIP meet and greets.
Those backstage soirees are organized, classy, and stacked with photo ops.
The tougher part to navigate is the moments after, when energy is high, adrenaline is coursing, and fans want a piece of the headliner.
My job is to keep them close but not too close. I’m in the zone all week long. The work doesn’t leave room for distractions, and I’m grateful for the show pace, the show days.
They make it easier not to think about the charge between us. The crackle and hum I feel when we’re alone.
But since we rarely are, my brain is zeroed in on work and only work.
And I can do what I need to do.
Think ahead.
React fast.
Make sure he looks good to the public, that they see an outgoing, charismatic man willing to pose for picture after picture.
That’s what he does after he plays his heart out each time.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.
On Friday, the theater is packed to the gills. From my post in the wings, I watch as the lights swirl and dip, as Zoe, the opening act, announces his name, as the crowd roars.
The din is deafening. Stone struts to the front of the stage, Strat slung around his shoulders, a smile on his face.
The grin he wears when he’s performing is like nothing I’ve seen before.
It’s special; it’s electric. He feeds off the crowd’s love of him and gives it right back to everyone in the theater.
The man isn’t just doing a job—he is living, breathing, and existing off the nourishment of music and crowds and energy.
They know it, he knows it, and everyone loves it.
Stone is a born performer, and he makes every second onstage count. I’ve seen countless shows of his. No two ever seem alike. Each one feels special, crafted for that audience that night.
It’s charismatic.
It’s magic.
And I can’t look away.
“Are you ready to ‘Make It Last,’ Vegas?” he booms into the mic, then launches into his Grammy-winning tune that electrifies the audience.
An hour and a half later, he performs his final encore and tells the crowd he loves them, he really fucking loves them.
Then he leaves.
After the VIP meet and greet, he’s ready to go.
“Good show,” I say.
“Great one,” he replies as we wind our way through the hotel to grab a drink with Sage and Nadia.
He hangs with them at Speakeasy for an hour while I stand outside.
After they say good night, I’m headed to the elevator banks with him when a shriek fills my ears.
“Stone!”
It’s high-pitched. Feminine. Young.
And multiplied.
I turn around in a nanosecond as a pack of twentysomething women trot over to him.
Five of them.
Wobbling in heels and boots, clutching long plastic cups sloshing with liquid.
In a heartbeat, I drape an arm around him, holding the other out in front of me to be safe. “Take it easy,” I say, friendly but crystal clear. They’re only drunk—nothing we haven’t dealt with at every show.
“Can we just take one pic?”
The question comes from a teetering redhead in sky-high red shoes, her speech slurred.
I look to him. It’s always his choice in moments like these. “It’s cool, J. One pic is fine,” Stone says.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
“It’s all good. I’m happy to do it.”
I maneuver him a few feet away so his back is to the wall, and I bring the women in. They sardine themselves around him, with the redhead stretching out her arm to snap a cell phone shot.
Once she’s done, her friends peel away, oohing and aahing and thanking him.
But Red is lightning fast. She spins around and slams herself against him. “I love you, Stone. I want to have your babies.”
That shit is not okay.
I slide right back in, threading my arm between the redhead and Stone just as she grabs the neck of his T-shirt.
Tension spirals in me, but my focus sharpens even more. I have one mission and only one mission.
“Time to step away, please,” I say firmly, gripping her hand and jerking it away from my client.
Because, ya know, she doesn’t need to touch him.
Not like this.
“But I love him,” she whines, refusing to let go, holding tight to the fabric as I pull her hand away.
“Glad you love me,” he says with a smile, playing the part even as a flicker of worry flashes in his eyes.
“Time to let go,” I say, peeling her fingers from his shirt, but she’s got a Vulcan death grip on the fabric, and she’s yanking it, determined.
But I’m stronger, and I manage to uncurl those fingers one by one. She’s like a cat, clawing a tree branch for dear life.
“Miss, it’s time for you to leave The Extravagant,” a voice booms.
Hotel security marches up to us, a trio of men in suits, ready to finish the job.
“Thanks, guys,” I say as they grab her, tug her away, and escort her off the premises.
With my arm around Stone the whole time, I punch the elevator key code in, step into the lift, and breathe out hard when the doors slide shut.
I look him over. Whoa. His chest is on display. His gray shirt hangs in tatters on his arms, the middle ripped down to the top of his abs.
I blink. “She ripped your shirt off.”
He glances down, pushes out a laugh, and swallows roughly as he regards the sartorial damage. “Yeah, she did.”
I step closer as the elevator rises and set my hands on his shoulders, worry flashing through me. That was a close call. Closer than we’re used to. “You okay? I didn’t want to make a scene. I know you hate that.”
“I do. Thank you for taking care of it.” A vein in his neck pulses quickly. “I’m good.”
But I want to be certain. That’s my job. “Yeah? You sure you’re okay?”
“Positive. I mean, screaming fans are part of the job, even ones who get up close and personal, but not so damn grabby. And that’s why I’m glad you were there.”
“So I could be the bad cop? Keep them away?”
Stone smiles. “Exactly. I’m grateful, man. I needed you.” He licks his lips, taking a breath. “I need you . . .” His eyes lock with mine. Heat shines in his irises.
Desire too.
And so much longing.
It’s just adrenaline. Just the moment, amped up after the trouble in the lobby.
But the moment is . . . irresistible.
The air sparks with electricity and buzzes with unfinished business.
And all the days of holding back threaten to unspool in one half-ripped T-shirt, the look in his eyes, and the weight of his words.
“I need you too,” I say, my voice a barren whisper, my hands still curled tight on his shoulders.
He inches closer, like he’s about to kiss me.
And it’s the only thing I want in the world.
But I stop him.
Elevators have cameras.
Hotels have employees with access to cameras.
Employees who might leak photos of us to the press. To TMZ. To the paparazzi. To anyone. I have to think for both of us, because photos of the rock star kissing his bodyguard in a Las Vegas elevator would be worth lots of money.
They’d do nothing to harm him.
But they’d pretty much kill any hope of future employment for me. Not just with him, but with anyone.
More than that, if anything is happening between the two of us, it’s not going to happen publicly.
Whatever is going on is private.
I push back on his shoulders, stopping him before his lips reach mine, before his face comes too close. My head swims with desire as I whisper, “There are cameras in the elevator. Anyone can see us.”
He swallows roughly. Nods. Steps away.
My hands feel empty.
My skin aches for him.
The minute-long ride to his floor lasts hours. It takes eons to reach our destination.
In that endless span, my desire does not abate. It’s not quenched. That’s the trouble. Nothing at all seems to quench it.
We reach his floor. The doors open. We step out.
Can I cool off? That’s the question.
I walk down the hall by his side, something I’ve done countless times. But this time feels like an end.
Like I’m drawing a final line in the sand.
Like if I don’t go in tonight, I’ll never go in.
The thought of never touching him again is horrifying.
But that’s the deal.
This is my job. This is my life.
We reach his door, and I hope I have the strength to resist. He stops in front of it. I’m inches behind him. Head bent, Stone murmurs, “Do you want to come in?”
I close my eyes, the punishing wave of lust crashing over me, threatening to tug me under its weight.
Do I want to go in?
I want it more than I want food.
More than sanity.
More than I’ve ever wanted another person.
I close my eyes, swaying closer, my chest brushing against his back, the press of our bodies clouding all my judgment.
With my mouth near his ear, I whisper, “More than you can ever know.”
He trembles. A shuddery breath escapes his lips. “But you’re not going to let yourself?”
I run my nose along his neck, inhaling his scent. “I want to resist you. I don’t want to compromise you.”
Stone shudders. “I’m already compromised.”
He wedges a hand behind him, between us, sliding it over my stomach and down to the front of my pants, along the ridge of my erection.
I nearly die of desire. There isn’t enough strength in me to contain it. But somehow I find the will, stepping away. “You told your brother you wouldn’t get involved.”
“I’m already involved,” he says heavily.
And I know the feeling.
Know it all too well.
Dipping his hand into his pocket, he takes out his key and turns around. His green eyes lock on mine. “I’m not going to try to convince you. I’m not going to beg. I’m not going to be that guy.”
I want him even more.
Stone nods to the door, reaching for the handle. “I’m going in here. I’m going to shower. And I’m going to leave you with this thought.” He licks his lips, stares at mine, then meets my gaze. “You. Me. Tonight. That’s all.”