I hum a few more notes then slide into another topic. “So, Jackson Pearce from Portland, Maine . . .” Those words remind me of the night at The Extravagant. The night I learned this man can kiss like a champion. Like a goddamn gold medalist in the sport, art, and science of kissing me senseless. “How is everything with the family? Did you see Mom, Dad, good-at-chess-and-kayaking Caroline, and Morissette, Chance, and Beethoven-loving Bethany?”
He rolls his eyes, but not like he’s annoyed. More like he’s all kinds of impressed. Hell, I’m impressed. “Well played, Stone.”
I tap my temple. “Got my Rolodex on you now, J-man. Keeping all that intel locked up here for when I need it. So, how’s the fam?”
“Everyone was great. I took them out to dinner. Not a lobster place. It was—”
“Let me guess.” I slap my hand against my forehead, fortune-teller-style. “Italian.”
“Yes.” He’s taken aback. “How did you know?”
I blow on my fingernails. “I know Italian’s your favorite. I guessed it came from the family.”
“Good guess.”
“And are your parents cool about stuff? Are you guys close?” I ask conversationally, but I suspect he gets my meaning.
His smile spreads nice and easy. “We are. Always have been. I’m lucky that way, I suppose. And they’re also supportive of their gay son, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I’m happy that his family is chill and open. “Excellent. Love that. I talk and text with my mom a ton. She’s in Hawaii, living her best life on the Big Island. She’s pretty cool about everything too.”
“Does that mean your dad’s not?” he asks cautiously, like we’re treading on uneven ground.
My dad.
I bristle at the mere mention of the man who made it his mission to make me feel as low as he possibly could.
Never about being bi though.
Always about being an artist.
“He doesn’t care who I like. He’s never given two cents about that, and he’s said as much. Flies his pride flag from his truck with abandon. He’s a dick for other reasons.”
“What reasons?”
Tension mounts in me as I rattle them off. “Let’s see. My dad can be summed up in a few gems he shared with me when I was a teenager: ‘You’ll never make anything of yourself as a musician. Poetry never got anyone anywhere. And if you insist on studying music in college, you’re on your own, and I won’t pay a damn dime for school.’”
“Ouch. The man doesn’t mince words.”
I grit my teeth as the memory reverberates, hard and still brutal. But I’ve learned to let it go, thanks to therapy. Thanks to talking it out. And thanks to following my dreams. “He does not. And he can’t seem to stop. When Zane joined me on a tour a couple years ago doing lighting, my father called me up to tell me what a horrible influence my musical lifestyle would be on my brother. And that I better not sway him off the ‘proper electrician path,’” I say, sketching air quotes.
Jackson shakes his head, as if in disbelief. “So it’s art and music he hates?”
“Yep. Said he doesn’t believe they have any value. ‘It’s not how a man earns a living,’” I say, imitating him again. “He said that one night when we were at a Mexican restaurant. He was scooping guacamole with a chip, and he got so worked up with his lecture about how art is useless that he spilled guac on his shirt. Now whenever he rants about art and his sons, Zane and I say he’s having a guacamole sitch.”
Jackson smiles warmly. “It’s good that you two can at least joke. But what does he want for you and Zane?”
“Nothing from me now. I’m a lost cause.” I wave a hand dismissively. “But Zane is younger, in his twenties. Mostly, Dad wants Zane to join his construction company so he has someone to run the family business when he retires, something he wants to do any day now. So, the pressure is on Zane. I feel for him, especially since his work in set design and theatrical lighting is catch-as-catch-can. I offered him a regular gig, but he said he wants to make it on his own and not on my coattails.”
“Gotta respect that.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Plus, the last time he worked with me, he kind of fell in love with Angelique.”
Jackson jerks back. “Your opening act a few years ago?”
“Damn. You remember my opening act from back then?”
He shoots me a duh look. “I researched you before I took the job. And you were impressed when I knew your story chapter and verse.”
“I’m still impressed.” I grin. “And yeah, it was a whole thing. A tabloid thing. He fell head over heels, and she fell for him, but then she ditched him. The breakup was rough.” Though that’s not the full truth. It was hard on Zane, but the tension between the two of them was hell on me, and that tour brought me some of my most mediocre reviews. I shudder thinking of them. “And my dad sure let me have it about that too. Like it was my fault Zane fell for her.” I heave a long sigh.
“It sucks that he gives you a hard time about something you love, something that brings millions of people joy. To sing like you do, play like you do—it’s a gift, and it’s a damn good thing you share it.”
I smile. I can’t not. I feel the grin inside my soul. “Thank you. A million times, thank you.”
He gives an it’s nothing shrug, then asks, “So you paid your own way through college?”
I nod, proud of that accomplishment. “I did. Went to UCLA, took out loans, studied music. And paid off all my loans and then some—funded a scholarship for kids with dickhead parents.”
Jackson cracks up, a big, hearty laugh. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Indeed. Named it myself.”
“Did you really start a scholarship?”
My tone turns serious, because I take it that way. “I did. It’s for students who need financial help. Pays the way for several kids a year to study music. So there, Dad,” I say, flipping the bird to my father in California.
He claps my shoulder, and that momentary touch sends a spark through me. “Proud of you, man. That’s awesome.” When his hand drops, I immediately wish he’d put it on me again.
But I let go of that wish and return to the conversation. “And how’s Bethany? Did you hang out with her?”
“I did. Took her out for a London Fog this morning.” Jackson parts his lips like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.
I shoot him a curious stare. “What did you just not say?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, his eyes not meeting mine.
“C’mon. You were about to say something.”
He draws a deep breath, like he needs extra air for his next few words. “Want to see a picture of her? From this morning?”
I light up. I’m an arcade game hitting a high score. “Hell yeah. I want it, and I want it now.”
The smile that tugs at his lips is endearing. I want to steal that smile and keep it in my collection. I want to hide it in my pocket and take it out when I need a jolt of happiness.
He reaches for his phone, slides his thumb across the screen, and shows me his camera roll. A girl with pink hair and a cool AF nose ring has wedged herself next to Jackson, smushed her cheek to his, and is grinning at the camera. And this man—he’s smiling too. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before, the kind that only family can put on your face.