2. Jackson
JACKSON
At the end of the week, the memory is so far gone, it’s not even in the back of my mind. It’s barely parked in my subconscious. When I pull up to the trendy office building in Venice, I cut the engine, step out of my car, and check my reflection one more time.
I’m ready.
Pressed slacks, a button-down shirt, cuffs rolled up showing some of my forearms.
That’s deliberate.
I’m not above playing up my muscles, playing up my strength.
It’s part of my résumé, and I’ve got a fantastic CV.
I want Stone and his team to be able to see the whole six-foot, four-inch package, the breadth of me, the fact that I’m a lot bigger than the average guy, but sturdier too, and solid—all muscle.
I head into the office building where Stone’s manager has a corner suite. Inside the lobby, the space is arty and creative. The walls are bright colors, one painted yellow, another orange, and posters of movies, concerts, and TV shows break up the citrus shades.
Clearly, this is a very LA type of building, where all the businesses wheel and deal in talent.
That’s what this town is best known for.
At the front desk, a woman in a paisley dress looks up from her screen and flashes me a smile. “Can I help you?”
I give her a grin. “I have a meeting with Edgely Kane Talent Management. I’m Jackson Pearce.”
With a polished peach fingernail, she scans the screen in front of her, then nods and says, “Yes. Go right ahead. They’re on the fourth floor.”
She sweeps her arm out. I nod and pass the elevators that she pointed to, going straight for the stairwell. I bound up the steps two by two until I reach the fourth floor.
Because why take the elevator when there are stairs?
As I swing open the door, it nearly smacks into the man himself as he emerges from the restroom.
Stone jerks his head in my direction, stepping away from the door, but he barely seems taken aback.
“Shit, sorry,” I say.
“No worries,” he says, then, like it’s in slow motion, that million-dollar, megawatt, shooting-star smile flies my way again.
Holy hell.
Does this guy know how to make you feel like you’re the only person around?
Well, dipshit, you are.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck as Stone gives me a tip of the chin. “But just so you know, I’m pretty damn sure that door is out to get me,” he says dryly as he walks down the long hallway.
“Doors can be like that,” I say, responding in kind.
“Right? Some days they are out of control. Just so damn rude.”
“Maybe you pissed off the door once,” I offer, since he seems like the kind of guy who appreciates a dry sense of humor.
He smacks his forehead. “Shit, you’re right. I did. It was the time I used the elevator instead of the stairs. I think that door is jealous.”
“Now, that’s totally understandable,” I quip.
He arches a brow, his lips quirking up again. “Jealousy is always understandable.”
There’s a hint of something more in his tone, but now is not the time to explore whatever that is. Never is the time.
Still, he’s easy to talk to. “Seems we agree.”
We both keep walking. He tips his forehead toward the office at the end of the hall. “I can promise you that door is not an asshole.”
“Good to know. Important, too, that you keep tabs on it,” I say, as I take in the details of the man, because that’s part of the job.
Stone is wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt with an illustration of a pineapple playing a guitar, and motorcycle boots.
He drags a hand through his hair, his eyes traveling up and down my frame once more, a look in them that says he’s trying to place me maybe.
Does he remember the other night in the green room?
He taps his finger against his chin. “I’m guessing you’re either Chris Hemsworth’s biggest threat in Hollywood, the next rising star in superhero films, or the guy we’re about to interview?”
A laugh bursts from within me. “Those are pretty good guesses.”
He holds out his hands, and a waiting look gleams in his eyes. “What’s it going to be? Am I right?” He points at me. “You are going to have your name on the silver screen.”
I dip my face, a little embarrassed. I shake my head. “I assure you, Chris Hemsworth has nothing to fear from me. And I can say with certainty that all the superhero roles will be safely cast with other actors.”
“I guess it’s what’s behind door number three.” He holds up his hand, his index and middle finger twined together.
“Yes. I’m the guy you’re interviewing.”
We reach a door with Edgely Kane Talent Management emblazoned on it. He grabs the handle, yanks it theatrically, and sweeps his arm out like he’s a valet in England opening the door wide. “Do come in, then, through this most friendly door.”
He’s quite a performer.
Once inside, he claps me on the back. It’s a friendly gesture, something you do with a buddy. I don’t read anything into it. I don’t think about how that hand feels on my shirt.
I swear I don’t.
Stone says hi to the guy at the desk, a hipster dude with glasses and sleek black hair, then adds, “I believe I found my one p.m. appointment.”
The man smiles at me. “You must be Jackson Pearce, then?”
“I am.”
Stone’s green eyes gleam with a wicked sort of glee. He arches a brow and quirks up his lips. “Dude, shut the hell up.”
I shoot him a curious look. “And why do you want me to shut the hell up?” I ask, tossing his words right back because I can go toe-to-toe with him, and I want him to know that.
Since I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants from me. From a bodyguard. I’m getting that message loud and clear.
“That’s your name?” he asks, surprised. “I mean, I knew it was Jackson. But Pearce is your last name?”
“Yes. It is.” I tilt my head, trying to get a read on his reaction. “Does it sound made-up?”
He squeezes my shoulder. “It sounds like a motherfucking awesome name. Like you’ve got a TV show at nine p.m. Tune in to Jackson Pearce, aka The Fixer. ”
I laugh lightly. “It’s good that you already think of me as a fixer. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Let’s keep it that way indeed.”
Stone keeps his hand on my back as we head to a room full of couches and chairs at the end of the office. Two women are in there, laughing, looking up something on a tablet. But before we step inside, he squeezes my shoulder once more. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a bodyguard.”
Things I’d never take the wrong way.
“Thanks.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“Yeah, I figured. You mentioned it in a good way.”
“I definitely meant it in a good way,” he says, almost a little flirty. Or is he just being appreciative?
I can’t quite get a read on him. If we’d met someplace else, I’d think he was flirting with me.
But as soon as one of the women rises, he wraps her in a hug, runs a hand down her arm, squeezes her wrist, and says, “Candi Kane, look who I found in the hallway. My next bodyguard.”
Candi tsks him. “We have an interview, Stone.”
“Yes, let’s talk to him first,” the other woman says. She must be Veronica.
He taps his chest. Then he points at me again. “I’ve got a feeling. Trust your gut.”
And I have a feeling too. And that’s why I was wrong about that eye gaze. And I was wrong about the clap on the back.
Thank God. Thank the Lord.
It’s all just a part of who he is. He’s friendly. He’s outgoing. He’s magnetic.
And I’m damn grateful for that because the last thing I want is to feel like my skin is sizzling and my bones are on fire for a man I’m hoping is about to hire me.
I don’t need that man to flirt with me. That’d be the worst kind of trouble.
And trouble is the last thing I need in my life.
I’ve had enough of it, and I don’t need any more.