18. Stone #2
He lifts his glass, takes a drink, but doesn’t downshift the mood.
“But the truth is, even though it was hard being attracted to you, and even though thinking you were self-centered was easier, I do like knowing that people matter to you. And now, I can see more sides of you. You have this ability to connect with people, whether through your music or how you talk to them. I see it in you. I saw it with Lola. I see it with me. It’s empathy, and you just have it. ”
My heart glows from the praise. I swear it’s shining in my chest, making me feel far too good. “I try to listen, to pay attention. I care about the people in my life. The people who make my life possible too.”
And since we’re stripping ourselves bare right now, putting things on the table, this seems as good a time as any to ask something I’ve been curious about. “What about you, J? You said stuff on the plane about risk. Stuff about the past. Did someone break your heart?”
The man across from me draws a deep breath, leans back in his chair, and looks around, never truly off the job. Then he returns his eyes to mine. “I was with someone. It was . . . serious.”
“Were you married?” In the few seconds before he answers, I try to figure out how I would feel if he had been. Whether it would bother me, the idea that he’d lived so much, that he’d loved that hard.
Would it deter me?
But then, deter me from what?
I’m not pursuing him. I can’t pursue him. We drew our lines.
Jackson answers quickly enough, shaking his head. “No, but we lived together for a couple of years. We were together. Committed partners.”
But now that I know, the intel doesn’t bother me. It kind of impresses me, knowing that he has it in him to live a life of devotion. So many of the pieces of Jackson are coming together. They’re making sense. The picture of him colors in, and I like what I see.
“What went wrong, J?” I ask softly, wishing I could touch him, run a hand along his arm.
But then, why can’t I?
I’m a toucher. That’s how I’m wired. I need it, and I can sense this man does too. I stretch out my right hand, sliding it along his wrist.
For a second, he shivers, and it’s both sexy and tender.
Then he swallows. Pain flashes across his eyes as he meets my gaze. “He was killed doing a motorcycle stunt. A triple jump for prize money.” He shakes his head, huffing. “He was a YouTube daredevil. Did stunts for social media. He died about two years ago.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. Does it still hurt?”
Pursing his lips, he takes his time answering. “I’m fine. I appreciate you asking. But truly, I’m okay.”
The way he says “okay” lingers in the air, like each letter hovers in its own space. It doesn’t sound like a half-baked okay . It sounds like an okay in the good sense of the word. The kind you aspire to.
Especially when he adds, “I’m definitely a lot better now.”
I swear he holds my gaze with import, with intensity. And that intensity does something to my insides. Makes them flip.
This is a brand-new sensation. One I haven’t felt before.
Maybe I’m reading into his answer in a way I shouldn’t.
Or maybe my mind is running ahead of me.
I don’t entirely understand why my pulse is skittering. I just know that it is.
“What about you?” Jackson asks. “Have you ever been serious with anyone?”
Letting go of his arm, I scratch my chin, considering the question.
“I’ve dated. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve had boyfriends.
But nothing that ever amounted to much. Nothing that ever felt serious.
If anything, when I was with someone, it felt more like casual dating for a while.
If that makes sense. Someone I’d go to events with.
Someone I’d see at galas and premieres, at restaurants and such.
That probably sounds silly to you,” I say, since it sounds shallow to me now that I give it voice.
He shakes his head. “No judgment. You live how you live. You love how you love.”
“I don’t know that it was love. Not like what you had. Were you going to marry him?”
“Probably. But that wasn’t in the cards.”
One more puzzle piece snaps into place. “In the limo. That night. You said it had been a while for you,” I say, taking my time with the details, trying to understand why they’re making my pulse spike even harder. “You haven’t been with anyone since him?”
“That is true. No one till you,” he adds, like he needs to clarify that point, or maybe just bring it up front and into the open, like I did with my question.
And, hell, I like that I’m the first guy he’s been with.
But why?
Makes no sense why I’d dig that nugget of info.
I’m a player. Always have been. Probably always will be.
“Interesting.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why my throat is dry, why my head is spinning with wild ideas, why my skin is prickling with something like anticipation.
I can’t be anticipating anything, because nothing is going to happen with this guy and me.
Except dinner. Hopefully really soon, because I am hungry.
“And you? You like to play the field?” Jackson asks, but there’s no judgment in his tone. Only curiosity, only interest.
But I don’t answer, because the waiter swings by with our food, and we tuck in. As I take a bite, moaning about how delicious the lion chow is, I answer in my head.
I like to play the field because the field is awesome. Because I love sex, I love contact, I love closeness.
I also like to play the field because it’s all I’ve known from a life lived on the road.
A life where falling in love was never an option.
A life where moving, doing, acting, singing, living, and playing was all I knew.
“I’ve liked playing the field,” I say, answering him at last. “But it also fit with the last ten years of my life, you know? Being on the road. Tours. Concerts. Press junkets. Never settling down. Know what I mean?”
“I do. I get you. It fits you,” he says.
“And do you like being serious?”
He slices a piece of chicken. “It feels more like my natural state. My last job was also local in Los Angeles, so I had a whole daily life there with . . . Fabian.”
My chest twists.
A strange piercing sensation winds through me now that I know the name of his partner. Sounds Brazilian. Now that I’m picturing him, he could have been a hot guy from Rio de Janeiro maybe. Handsome as a movie star to have nabbed Jackson.
A few seconds ago, Jackson’s dead partner was just a guy.
Now he has a name.
And he had the key to Jackson’s heart, but he broke it with a choice.
That piercing in me turns black, hard. Borderline angry. Because I’m pissed at that guy for hurting Jackson.
For causing him all that pain.
But then, life happens.
It plays out the way it does, and here he is.
Across from me.
Is it selfish that I like where he is now? That I like him here with me? On the road with me? Having dinner with me?
He eats the slice of chicken, chews, then finishes the thought. “I’ve always gravitated toward relationships. I guess it’s just the kind of person I am.”
“You really don’t do hookups ever?” I ask, then take a bite of my pasta.
“No, I haven’t. I guess until that one time with you.”
Ah, hell.
This delights me.
It shouldn’t.
But it absolutely delights me to no end, even though I know nothing is going to happen between us. Except my stupid heart is dancing some kind of crazy jig. Because he bent for me.
I let go of the jealousy I feel for his past, and I slide my boot under the table, rubbing the toe against his shoe. “Call me crazy, but I think that’s sexy.”
He laughs. “Why on earth would you think that’s sexy?”
“You tell me, Jackson. All I can figure is I think everything about you is sexy,” I say, and lest the moment become too heavy, I lighten it. “And now that I know you’re as gay as a guy who likes sucking cock, I am allowed to think how sexy you are all the time.”
I set down my fork with a flourish, wiggle a brow, and lick my lips salaciously.
Because this is me—easy, free, playing the field.
He laughs. “And how’s that working out for you? Is it driving you crazy knowing nothing is gonna happen?”
“So damn crazy,” I mutter.
I’m crazier, too, when my brother joins us a few minutes later and it’s no longer a date.
But I have to remind myself it was never one.
Should be easy, since Jackson is great with him. “The setup you were running through earlier—it looks great,” Jackson says to Zane after he orders.
“Thanks. I’m glad we could put it all together so quickly,” my brother replies.
“I’m impressed. Can’t wait for the show to open tomorrow night.”
Zane glances at me, then back at Jackson, and asks, “So, you like Stone’s music?”
Then my brother smiles at my bodyguard, like he can’t wait for the answer.
I can’t either. I don’t know what he’ll say, but I want Jackson’s yes so damn badly. Why the hell do I want him to like my music when millions do? When my shows sell out? I don’t need one man’s approval.
“You want to know the God’s honest truth?” Jackson asks Zane.
Zane smirks. “Oh man, I’m dying for you to tell me that you can’t stand his songs.”
With a devilish grin, Jackson takes his phone from his pocket and clicks on a playlist then the date he created it. Two years ago—well before he started working for me. It has all my songs on it. “Make It Last.” “Take Me.” “Bedroom Eyes.”
I have millions of fans. I have people who like my music on all continents.
But the fact that he enjoys my tunes thrills me.
And so does this thing he does under the table. He slides his foot onto mine, taps my toe, and shoots me a private smile.
Later that night, Jackson walks me to my suite alone and stops right outside my door, like he does every night.
But tonight, his eyes linger on me longer. They turn serious for several seconds.
He looks like he desperately wants to say something.
I desperately want to invite him in.
I want to beg him to spend the night with me.
Hell, I want to ask him to throw me against the wall and smother me in drowning, devouring kisses.
The kind only he can give.
But the memory of Zane’s face at dinner, happy and carefree, unbothered by my dad, flickers before me.
Is that the reason I don’t invite Jackson in?
Or is it something else?
Is it that I don’t know how to deal with this burgeoning well of feelings in my chest for him?
Feelings that are surprising the hell out of me.
Maybe it’s because I want more than one night with him.
I reach for my key, slide it over the card reader, and say good night to the man I don’t want to say good night to.