16. Jackson
JACKSON
Six miles in the morning.
Jujitsu after that.
A check-in with Ryan for his job interviews.
A bank transfer to the credit card company.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, trying to erase the tension—the inevitable tension—that comes with that reminder.
The balance is only a bit smaller.
But still, it’s shrinking.
Thanks to the job.
My afternoon begins with advance scouting—checking out some of the press stops Stone will make during his residency—as well as a routine check of the theater in The Extravagant where he’ll perform.
He played here the other month, so we know it well, but double-checking, then triple-checking, is the name of my game.
I conduct the advance survey then write up a report for the rest of the personal security team and email that out to Cruz, Terrence, the backup guys, and the weekend bodyguards.
Cruz replies in seconds via text.
Cruz: Thanks for the info. Also, would you recommend pepperoni or sausage on a pizza?
I roll my eyes. I swear he’s not ever going to let me live down the pizza comment from the night I left Stone’s room late. I have no idea if he knows what we were up to, but I’m not letting on, so I reply with a joke. But, like most jokes, it contains the truth.
Jackson: I prefer sausage. Maybe you’d like a peach on yours.
Cruz: Dude. That’d be donuts.
I cringe. Not because of the donut comparison to a woman. But because . . .
Jackson: Donuts on pizza sounds horrible.
Cruz: No shit! But in any case, to each his own.
He leaves it at that. And I’m grateful. Grateful he didn’t give me a hard time that night I left Stone’s room late. Grateful he’s giving me a hard time now. We’re buds, and that’s what we do.
Since it’s only two, I head to the gym for an hour of weights while blasting a playlist of new jams compiled by Bethany.
After I down a long drink of water, I fire off a text to my song purveyor.
Jackson: Boom. Slayed my afternoon workout thanks to your playlist.
Bethany: When do you not slay it?
Jackson: Never.
Bethany: So it wasn’t really my jams that did it?
Jackson: Take the compliment, Bethany.
Bethany: I took it, tucked it in my backpack for a rainy day. By the way, how’s everything going with the concert?
I’m about to reply when Terrence strolls in. He’s off today, so another guy is filling in. Terrence tips his chin in a hello. “Did you hear the news?”
Groaning, I slip my phone into the pocket of my shorts. “Nothing good ever starts with ‘Did you hear the news?’” I give him a “bring it on” curl of my fingers. “Go ahead. Serve it up, whatever it is.”
The tour has been canceled. My job has ended. There’s a fire. Something.
Terrence claps my shoulder. “Sorry to scare you, bro. It’s just that Stone’s brother showed up late last night.”
I school my expression,like I know nothing about Zane. “Oh, he did?”
But then I want to kick myself, because of course I can know about Stone’s brother. I was with Stone last night as part of my job when the text landed that Zane had a situation.
I guess that situation means Zane is here.
Terrence picks up a fifty-pound barbell and starts biceps curls. “He showed up late last night. Stone brought him on to do lighting. Veronica sent out a note a little while ago. Zane’s doing some extra effects with lights. Some cool new things he wants to try.”
“So that’s . . . good?”
Terrence smiles, big and wide, as he switches to the other arm without a grunt or a groan. “He’s a fun guy. He was with us a few years ago. He’s a lot like Stone.”
I tilt my head to the side, curious to know everything about the rock star. “In what way?”
Terrence taps his sternum. “Big, huge heart. A total softie.”
I smile, turning my face away so it’s not completely obvious to Terrence how much that statement makes my own heart pound a little harder. “Yeah, sounds like Stone. Thanks for the update, man.”
“Anytime. Also, if you don’t want your Hawks tix when it’s your turn, let me know,” he says.
“You’re already angling to snag them?”
He shoots me a serious stare. “I don’t joke about football. And I’ve been on the rotation longer. You should just give them to me.”
“You wish,” I say, laughing. I plan to enjoy one of the perks of working for this rock star—his generosity in sharing his suite with his staff.
“Can’t fault a man for trying,” Terrence says, then lowers his barbells, tucks his AirPods into his ears, and dives into his workout. As I leave the hotel gym, I grab my phone, spotting Bethany’s latest text.
Bethany: Did you tell Stone your little sister has a crush on him?
I stop in my tracks, cringing. That is such an awful thought for so many reasons. Actually, for one reason that trumps all others. We can not be into the same guy.
Jackson: You do not.
Bethany: He’s hot. Like we talked about. Admit it. Haven’t you noticed this?
I drag my hand over my chin and make my way down the hall to the stairwell. As I power up the steps, I write back.
Jackson: He’s eighteen years older than you.
Bethany: I’m not going to marry him. I’m not going to sleep with him. I’m simply admiring his looks, like everyone does. Also, he’s only four years older than you. And I know that he’s a switch-hitter.
Jackson: Your math is terrific. And everyone knows he’s a switch-hitter.
Bethany: So what do you think about that? Also, what is wrong with us? Why have we never discussed that your boss is a total hottie?
Jackson: Because that’s why. He’s my boss. It doesn’t matter how he looks.
Bethany: Do you have a crush on him?
I swallow roughly.
Crush? No. I’m a grown man.
But my heart did just beat wildly when Terrence said nice things about him.
My smile did just claim all the real estate on my face.
Is that what happens when you have a crush?
It’s hard to say, because the lust is so strong too.
One week after our night together and my desire for Stone has not abated. It shows no signs of stopping. It has its own life force.
As I round the corner of the next landing, I answer her with complete honesty.
Jackson: I don’t have crushes.
Bethany: Well, that is true. When you fall, you fall hard. There’s no crushing about it.
Jackson: Thanks for the reminder. It’s more like I have devastations.
Bethany: So no crush on Stone, then? No hope of a #Jackstone in our future?
I groan as an anchor sinks in my chest. I hate lying to her. But I don’t want to tell her the truth either. Stone and I had a thing. It happened once. It’s not happening again. We are just a meme. A hashtag. Jackstone isn’t real.
Jackson: I will admit, in all honesty, that he is handsome, talented, generous, and magnetic.
Bethany: Oh my God! I’m dying to ask you a ton more questions, but I have rehearsal. You are not off the hook, mister.
I sigh in relief at the reprieve from her sisterly inquisition. After I shower and dress for work, I head upstairs to the penthouse floor, say hello to the daytime bodyguard, chat with him quickly about the shift—it was a quiet one, he says—then thank him and rap on the door.
“Jackson Pearce here.”
Stone opens the door, inviting me in with a sweep of his arm and a twinkle in his eyes. When the door shuts, he drags a hand through his hair. “Brother, today is a hard day.”
“Why is it hard?”
“Because it’s haircut day.”
I nod. I saw that on the agenda. He has an appointment in twenty minutes.
“You’re getting a trim?”
He shakes. “Nope. New look. Going short. Not as short as your hair, but I’m lopping off several inches.”
Huh.
I’ve only known him with a shoulder-length style. With this shaggy rocker hair that I’ve had my hands in. Tugged on. Felt falling through my fingers.
My skin heats up.
“Let’s get your haircut,” I say, a little gravelly. What else can I say? I can’t give voice to the other things.
I take out my phone, swipe my agenda to click on the location for the trim, and hear him clear his throat. I look up from my cell. “What?”
He beckons me farther into the suite. I follow him to the living room.
He runs his hands through his hair. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
The question comes out stitched with vulnerability. That’s unexpected. But then, I’m learning that a lot of him is, including this vulnerable side that he’s been showing me more and more. A side I kind of like. A lot.
“Your hair?” I ask, sticking to business.
“Yes. My hair. Do you like it?” He’s all earnestness.
I swallow roughly, answering truthfully. “You know I do.” I take a moment then ask the necessary follow-up. “But why are you asking?”
He steps closer, a couple of feet away from me now. His eyes are hard to tear my gaze from, so piercing and open today. “J, do you not want me to cut it?”
My skin prickles at the question—at the intensity and honesty in it. Like my opinion is the only one that matters. Like I’m his, and he’s mine, and he won’t cut his hair if I’m his man and I don’t want him to.
I purse my lips, saying nothing because the question has so much subtext to it. The question is all subtext. And subtext is all I want.
“I’ll leave it like this if you want me to,” he adds, voicing the unspoken. “If you don’t want me to cut it, I won’t.”
Then, out of nowhere, Stone curses up a storm. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.” He stalks to the couch, where he flops down, drops his head into his hands, and mutters, “I should never have promised Zane.”
I quirk a brow. “Promised him what?”
He shakes his head again, back and forth, groaning and moaning like a wounded cat. “I made a bet. An idiotic bet I’m already regretting.”
I laugh. “What was the bet?”
He raises his face, misery his companion. “Don’t laugh when I tell you.”
“When you say, ‘Don’t laugh,’ it guarantees that someone is going to laugh, Stone.”
“Please tell me you won’t laugh,” he begs, his eyes pleading like a puppy dog’s.
“I won’t laugh. What’s the deal?”
He frowns. “We made a bet for the rest of rehearsals and the two weeks of the show.” He waves a hand airily. “No . . . getting involved.”
I don’t laugh. I cough. I practically choke. I’m pretty much speechless. “Um, what’s the issue?”
“The issue is I’m asking if you like my hair. That’s the goddamn issue.”
My tone softens. “But we’re not involved. And we’re not getting involved. We already decided against that.”
He nods several times, like he’s reminding himself. “Right. Obviously. So it shouldn’t matter if you like my hair.”
My brow knits. “Okay, then you don’t need me to answer the hair question?”
“No.” But he lowers his face to his hands again, muttering, “Yes.”
My heart squeezes.
The man is a wreck.
A discombobulated ball of confusion and worry and vulnerability.
My protective instincts kick in, and I kneel in front of him. Regardless of his bet with his brother, the hair question matters.
And I can answer him without crossing a line for either one of us.
As much as I want to set a hand on his knee, squeeze it, reassure him, I don’t lean on the physical. I rely on words, gentling my voice. “I like your hair. I also think you’d be just as hot if it was short.”
His eyes are like sparklers on the Fourth of July. “You mean that?”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Of course I mean it. You’d be sexy with short hair. And you’d be sexy with old-school Bon Jovi–length hair, or a new shorter cut. You’d be sexy with a shaved head. With a buzz cut. With long hair. With wavy hair. With curly hair.”
Stone shudders. “I’m not a curly-haired dude.”
“I know. But the hair length doesn’t matter,” I say, and because he’s way out of sorts, I give him more.
I take my time, weighing my words, but doling them out anyway.
“If you’re asking if I’d still be attracted to you if your hair was shorter, the answer is this attraction isn’t going anywhere. And it’s not because of your hair.”
He breathes a huge sigh of relief and whispers, “Same. Wait, that’s not true.
I mean, yes, it is true. But I just want to say, for the record, I really like your hair.
I like it a lot. It’s so you. It’s the perfect length, all short and clean cut.
” He makes a circular gesture to encompass all of me.
“Everything. Everything you have, it’s just working.
You are just so . . .” He reaches out and slides a hand over my chest, sending a hot rush of adrenaline through me.
I try to stay as still as I can as I give him a warning. “ Stone. ”
His voice dips to a low and dangerous register. “I know . . . I’ll stop.”
“You have a haircut to get to,” I whisper as a tremor works its way through my body.
“I do.”
But he doesn’t take his hand off me. I don’t want him to. I look down at his fingers splayed on my chest. “Why are you doing this?”
“I should stop.”
There is nothing in his voice that sounds like he’s going to stop. There is nothing in my voice that says I want him to.
I take his free hand, lift it up, and press a kiss to his palm. He trembles.
“You should, Stone,” I say quietly. But I don’t stop either. I draw his finger into my mouth, sliding it between my lips, sucking down to the end of his knuckle.
His jaw comes unhinged. “J, I think about that so much. All the time.”
I draw him deeper, swirling my tongue around him. My bones crackle with lust. “Me too,” I say around his finger. “Every night. Every morning.” I let go so I can run his finger along my bottom lip. “Want to taste you. Feel you in my throat.”
He tightens his grip on my chest, fisting the fabric of my shirt. “I have no words,” he whispers.
“Don’t need words.” I suck him back in, nice and tight, showing him what I want.
My eyes are locked with his the whole time.
We are teetering. This moment is tipping dangerously into something we swore we wouldn’t do again.
I want to pounce on him.
And I just might.
His phone buzzes with an alarm.
The haircut.
I shake off my desire as best I can. Let go of his finger.
Rise.
Offer him a hand to tug him up. He takes it. As he stands, his eyes glimmer with mischief. He stares at my crotch. “I turn you on.”
It’s a statement. Not a question.
I roll my eyes. “Wiseass. You know you turn me on. I was just talking about sucking your cock. If I didn’t have a raging erection, we’d have a bigger problem.”
A groan seems to rip from his chest. “There’s nothing problematic about that.”
I inch closer, lining my body up with his, bringing my face near his ear to that spot I love on his neck. “It is a problem, since you just swore me off for more than two weeks.”
“Did I?” Stone asks slyly.
I shake my head. “You swore off getting involved. Evidently, there is no one you won’t bet with. So, whether it’s sex or getting involved, it doesn’t matter.” I gesture to the bed. “You made your . . . bet.”
“And now I have to lie in it?”
This time, I do laugh.
And because I do have control, because I am disciplined, because I’m going to stick to the plan, I step away from him, not giving a flying fuck about my raging erection as I mutter, “Goddamn bet.”
He mutters it too as we leave for the barber.