Jackson lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Why do you want to prove that to me?”
I look hard at him, at this stunning man by my side. I could give him a million lines. I could tell him he’s sexier than anyone I’ve ever known.
But that doesn’t matter to him. He won’t care about that. The things that matter to Jackson go deeper than sex, deeper than looks. That’s why I want to impress him with the man I can be. I don’t know what the future holds with Jackson and me. Don’t know if there’s a chance for anything more with him. But for now, I need to show him and myself that there’s more to me.
“You’re important to me. So I made a bet with myself. To resist you and everyone else.”
He laughs. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am.”
But maybe this is something I need to prove to myself.
Not only that I can resist him, but that I can resist sex.
So that’s what I do for the entire next month.
8
Jackson
A month on the East Coast is good for me. Stone plays shows in Miami, Orlando, Atlanta, Raleigh, DC, and New York, and I do my job.
I make sure screaming fans don’t grab his clothes or steal his phone. I protect him from the wild onslaught of groupies who want to touch his arm or slide a hand through his hair.
Fabian used to say my job was risky too, but guarding celebrities is nothing compared to the daredevil risks he took for clicks on social media.
Hell, my job is safer than a firefighter’s. Much less risky than the Marines. My work involves using my brain more than my body.
It involves eyesight and instinct.
And tonight it involves Portland, Maine, the last leg of this brief East Coast stint.
That’s my favorite stop, since I can escape to see my family. On my night off, I stay with them and take my mom, dad, and two sisters out to dinner. The next morning, I drive Bethany to school. She’s an early bird like me, so she’s not due in class for thirty more minutes, which means we have some time.
“I insist on coffee and gossip,” she tells me, and points to her favorite coffee shop on the way there.
I can’t deny her. I never have been able to—not since she was a baby and I was the fourteen-year-old kid already enchanted with his little sister.
Now, with her pink-tipped hair and pierced nose, she looks every bit the disgruntled teen.
But she’s not.
She’s a sweetheart. Inside the shop, she orders a London Fog, and a coffee for me.
We grab a table in the corner.
I cast my gaze around the shop, a habit I won’t break. “Are you going to tell me about all the boys at school now that Mom and Dad aren’t around? I want the deets.”
Her jaw drops. “Boys? What boys?” she asks, all cheeky and mock-innocent.
I wiggle my fingers. “Serve it up. I know how boys are.”
“Do you now?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, they want to get laid. And if you want that too, more power to you. But use a condom and be sure to give your consent, K?”
Her face flushes as pink as her hair. “Yes, Mr. Sex-Positive Daddy.”
“Please. Dad never talked about sex.”
“But Mom did,” she points out.
“Thank God for that,” I say. My firefighter dad was and is cool about all things when it comes to sexuality, but discussing condoms made him tongue-tied. Mom, being a guidance counselor, had no such issues. Once she knew I preferred guys, she not only broke out the banana to show me how to put on a condom, she also whipped out her whiteboard and proceeded to list the positions that were supposedly best for gay sex first-timers.
That wasn’t weird at all.
“Anyway, there’s no one,” Bethany says. “The guys at my school don’t interest me. I want someone creative, someone artistic.”
“Someone in the theater?” I ask as I take a drink of my morning joe.
“Yes. Like me,” she says. “Someone who can appreciate Rent.”
“You better get me tickets when you hit the stage as Maureen. I’m going to come back to see it next month.”
“You better show up.”
I scoff. “I always do.”
She smiles softly. “You do.” She lifts her cup, takes a sip, then clears her throat.
Uh-oh. I know what’s coming.
The barrage of questions.
“And what about you, Jackson? Have you met anyone?”
“Is this where we deep-dive into my relationships?”
Her hazel eyes are as intense as her tone. “Yes. It is. You know I like the relationship convos as much as you do.”
I give her a pointed look, then a true answer. “I don’t have time for a partner. I’m busy with work.”
“So you have no interest in anybody?”
“I’m not a player,” I say, deflecting her question. Otherwise, my mind will linger on Stone.
How ridiculous is my situation? The bodyguard who has it bad for the superstar he protects. Pretty sure that’s a Hollywood storyline starring heartbreak.
Or the punchline to a joke.
“I am well aware that you’re not a player. But what I want to know is . . . do you miss him still?”
I wait for the pinching in my heart. For the pain that used to shoot through me. Neither happens. Neither has happened in some time.
Fabian died nearly two years ago, and I’ve moved on. There’s no other way to live. You do what you have to do to survive.
“It’s been a while. And you know what it was like right after,” I say quietly. Like if I say it louder, the volume might snap me back to the hell of losing the person I loved—the person I loved despite his bad decisions.
She reaches for me, setting a hand on my arm. “I know, Jackson. I remember. My heart still hurts for you.”
I give a shrug, a little helpless. But that was the past. “I’m okay. And to answer your question, I don’t miss him. I miss the good parts though. I don’t miss the arguments. And I definitely don’t miss begging him to stop.”
Her eyes are fierce as she pins me with wisdom beyond her years. “You tried to get him to stop. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
Hell, did it ever hurt when the cops knocked on my door that afternoon, telling me that Fabian died doing a stunt on his bike that his friends filmed for his YouTube channel. The moment the officer asked, Are you the emergency contact for Fabian Santos? I knew that the next words out of his mouth would be I’m sorry to inform you . . .
I shove that thought away. Some memories will always ache even if the missing stops.
“Listen, it’s all good. I’m focused on work. I’m fine with that. It keeps me busy.” I finish with a smile I mostly feel. I do love my work. My job energizes me. It gives me purpose.
Crush on my boss aside.
“I know, but I worry about you. You were happy. I want to see you happy again, Jackson. You like being with someone.”
My heart squeezes at the truth in that, at her awareness of who I am. But even if I used to lean toward the relationship side of the romance fence, that doesn’t mean I want to hang out there now. I may no longer hurt, but I don’t want to open myself up to more pain. When my partner died, something broke inside me that I don’t want to repair—the piece of me that liked commitment, connection, partnership.