I stare at the image, then at him, then back at the image. “I. LOVE. THIS. PICTURE.”
“Yeah?”
“I love it so much that it’s going to be my next song.”
“You’re writing a song about a picture?”
“Yes. I’ll call it . . . ‘Pictures of You.’”
He laughs. “The Cure beat you to that, man.”
“‘Photograph’?”
“Hello? Heard of Ed Sheeran?”
“‘Picture This’?” I’m spurred on by the way he can keep up in this musical game.
“Blondie.” He slams his hand on an imaginary buzzer, making a loud squawk. “Try again.”
I stare at the ceiling of the plane, like the answer is up there, then I snap my gaze back to him. Taking my time. Letting a new title roll around in my mouth, take shape on my tongue, till I know, just know, it feels right. “‘The Guy in the Picture.’”
His jaw goes slack. The lightness in his eyes disappears. A hint of intensity flickers across his irises. “Yeah, that’s a good title.”
I think I might have just told Jackson I’m going to write a song about him. Yeah, that’s not coming on strong at all.
Time to slide back onto Platonic Lane. “So, you saw Bethany. Had some London Fogs. Did you discuss Imagine Dragons?”
“And Rent. And boys.”
I arch a brow. “That sounds like an interesting conversation.”
He mimes zipping his lips. “I’m not going to tell you a word my sister said.”
Nudging his side with my elbow, I dip my voice. “But what about you? I kind of want to know what you said about boys.”
The look he deals me is searing. His eyes are hot, flashing with “It was hard for me to resist you too.” Or maybe I’m reading into them. Maybe thirty days of solo sessions with my hand are making me a little horny.
Or a lot.
Maybe I’m shit at the platonic zone with Captain Mostly Stoic, since I’m more like the King of Dirty Flirting with him. “What did you say about boys? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“You’re not going to get a word of that from me.”
His answer is a little playful, and I can’t resist it. “That’s okay. I don’t really want to know what you think about boys. I’m much more interested in what you think about . . . men.” I say it in a hot, dirty whisper and leave it to float in the air between us.
His answer comes low, like a waft of smoke. “You already know how I feel about men. And about one man in particular.”
I am hot everywhere. Every inch of my body. Every ounce of my blood. Just like that, I want to lay waste to the detox, slide my hand across his face, drag a thumb over that perfect jaw, and slam my mouth to his. I want my hands all over my bodyguard. My lips everywhere.
I draw a sharp breath, run a hand through my hair, and whisper, “You’re so damn lucky we’re surrounded by people.”
“Why’s that, Stone?” he asks, innocent, but not at all.
“Because if we weren’t, I would do bad things to you.”
He gives a low, soft chuckle. “I believe we’ve established it’s the other way around.”
“What-the-fuck-ever. I don’t care about roles. Never have. Never will,” I say, my words low. Thank God for the ambient noise of the plane so no one can hear us. We’re in a vacuum of sound here. “None of that matters to me. I’m one hundred percent vers. Wait. Make that one hundred ten percent. You can top me every damn time if you want, but I would still do bad things to you. I would drive you crazy from the bottom. I promise I would.”
The wild look in his eyes tells me everything. This thing between us isn’t going away so easily.
It’s not subject to detox.
It exists in its own land, plays by its own rules.
Jackson raises a hand, reaches for his neck, and rubs his thumb along the side of it. “That does not surprise me. Not one single bit.”
But I surprise myself with what I do next.
I don’t push the dirty talk.
I don’t push, because I’m worried about this guy.
This is not the first or the second or even the third time he’s tried to work out the tension in his neck. And it’s not just in his neck. He holds his shoulders like they’re in a vise.
“J,” I say with concern.
He must hear it; his tone adjusts too. “What’s up?”
“You okay? Are you going through something? I feel like you seem all full of tension. A lot.”
Jackson shakes his head quickly. “Don’t worry about me. Are you ready for everything in Vegas? You psyched about this residency?”
He’s avoiding the topic. I know it. But I also don’t know if he’s ready to let me in on the truth. So I answer that I’m thrilled that my team inked the deal with The Extravagant for a two-week gig. Turns out my one-night-only show went over so well that they wanted to bring me back, and I couldn’t be more excited.
I’ve spent the last few years kicking around, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do after I won a ton of Grammys for my best-reviewed and best-received album ever. I took some time off from touring, traveled around the world to Indonesia and Vietnam, to India and Greece, funded some orphanages, donated gobs of money to charities aiming to save the ocean and the rain forests—everything that matters to me.
And when I returned stateside, the music roared back, like turning on a fountain. My new album uncorked itself in mere weeks.
God, I love the muses and their mysterious ways.
“I’m stoked to keep playing the new tunes,” I say. “And I love Vegas. Zane will be in town to see a few shows and hang out with some of his friends. My grandma lives in Vegas, so he’ll stay with her, and I’ll see him soon.”
Jackson’s lips curve in a playful grin. “But you won’t be seeing the fictional sister.”
I laugh. “No. My imaginary sister won’t be there. But you can meet my real brother.”
He gives me a satisfied nod. “I look forward to that.”
“And maybe someday I’ll meet your real sisters.”
He’s quiet for a minute, then he answers in a tone that warms my heart. “Maybe you will.”
And since it feels like we had a moment—hell, this whole flight has been one big moment—I clap his shoulder. “You sure there isn’t anything in particular that’s getting to you?”
Jackson draws a breath, almost like he’s considering whether he wants to tell me, then he shakes his head. “Nothing important. Just some things I need to sort out. Some things from the past.”
“The past,” I say, kind of wanting to know the entire history of him. “Do you have a dark and secretive past?”
“I have to untangle some things, that’s all. You know how it goes. Well, maybe you don’t. But sometimes you’ve got to clean up the mistakes you’ve made. Make sense?”
“Yeah, it does,” I say, since that’s a whole helluva lot this private man just gave me. And I’m going to accept it for the gift it is. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“I will.”
I’m confident that’s pretty much all I’m going to get out of him, but I take it as a positive sign. He just shared more about himself with me than he ever has before.