He stops lifting. Blows out a long stream of air. Offers an apologetic smile. “Look, Melody wanted me to check in with you.”
I tense, a knee-jerk reaction that’s not his wife’s fault. “Ah. And everything makes sense now.” His wife is as cool as Imagine Dragons, but it’s hard to think of her without thinking of Fabian.
Because she was his best friend.
Was being the operative word.
“I’m fine, man. Tell Melody I’m all good.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You think it’s that easy, Jackson? You think I can tell Melody you’re all good and then I’m off the hook?”
“Why can’t you tell her that?” I move to another biceps machine, settling in on the bench.
“Women aren’t like that.”
I laugh. “Shockingly, I’m not that familiar with how women are in relationships.”
“C’mon, man. You have two sisters and a mom. You know plenty about how to handle the fairer sex, and you ought to know that ‘all good’ is nowhere near satisfying to a lady.”
“Pretty sure the only thing I know about how to satisfy a lady is to give her a dress with pockets.”
Maybe even in spite of himself, Terrence laughs—a loud, boisterous chuckle. “Exactly. You know more than you let on. And in this case, you know I can’t take an ‘all good’ back to my wife. Melody worries about you. She saw some Facebook memory. From three years ago or something.”
I groan, bile rising at the mention of that godforsaken place. “I swear, social media should be outlawed. It only causes intense bouts of loathing, agony, annoyance, or some combination of the three. That’s why I’m not on it.”
“I hate it too. But Melody doesn’t hate it. And Fabian didn’t hate it.”
I let go of the weights, jerking my gaze to Terrence, all my latent emotions snapping to the surface. “I know he didn’t hate it. That was kind of the problem. He lived for it and did so much dangerous shit for the sake of it.”
Terrence’s smile is sympathetic and genuine. “I know, man. But it’s only a picture. Something he posted three years ago. She mentioned it this morning. It was of the four of us at a barbecue we all went to in Silver Lake. At Nina and Grayson’s house.”
That day flashes before me in Technicolor. Burgers, corn on the cob, microbrews that Nina and Grayson made themselves. They tasted awful, and we told them as much. A sunshine-filled afternoon with volleyball in the yard, and good food and good drink—because we went to the store to grab a better IPA—that lasted deep into the evening.
An evening without regret. Because it capped off a day of laughter, beer, food, jokes, and falling.
Falling in love.
A year ago, the memory would have struck cruelly, like a sucker punch.
Now, it doesn’t hurt.
Time does that.
That’s the point of time. It helps you move on. Helps you stop hurting.
I don’t hurt.
And I also don’t want to hurt anymore.
I clap Terrence on the back. “Listen. You tell Melody I swear I’m good. I’m as good as a dog in the sun. As a woman finding a dress with pockets. As a classic rock fan tracking down an old Pink Floyd bootleg. Is that better than ‘all good’?”
With narrowed eyes and an “I’ll give in this time” grumble, he mutters a yes.
“But if she really worries about me, she can send me some of those home-baked brownies I love so much.” I lick my lips, my stomach growling as it remembers Melody’s prowess with a KitchenAid mixer and some cocoa.
“I’ll do you one better than that. I already left one outside your room. She sent them to me.”
I point at him. “Never leave her.”
“I never will. I miss her like crazy when I’m away.”
“After the East Coast tour, you’ll be back in Los Angeles.” I snap my fingers. “It’ll go by like that.”
“Let’s hope so.”
I say goodbye, mostly glad that Melody hooked me up with Terrence as buds in the first place. We became friends, and when the job opened up, he put in a good word for me with Stone.
Mostly glad indeed.
It’s not my friend’s fault I’ve got it bad for the boss.
It is definitely my fault if I keep acting on it.
But I won’t.
I definitely won’t.
Because I don’t have to be on social media evidently to feel what a memory can do to you.
It can remind you that getting involved can lead to pain.
To a particular kind of pain.
And I don’t ever want to go there again.
I laser in on resistance all day long, laser in on it so finely that my whole body is a tight wire.
Especially when I see Stone later that afternoon.
7
Stone
I have a Grammy. It’s awesome. I pet it and stroke it. And it is definitely one of my proudest accomplishments. Well, all five of them are.
It’s hard to top a Grammy. It’s harder still to top a quintet of those statues. But I intend to, starting today.
I’m going to impress the daylights out of myself with this incredible feat—I’m not going to flirt with my bodyguard.
Hell, I’m not going to flirt with anyone.
I can behave.
That afternoon when Jackson takes over the guard detail outside the hotel, holding open the door for my limo, I practice. I give the big man a clap on the shoulder, slide into the back seat, and say, “And how the hell are you this morning?”
There. That’s friendly.
As he joins me in my ride, he tips his forehead to the sun, high in the sky. “You mean this afternoon.”
Damn, he is good. He slides right back into giving me a hard time, and I love it. “I say morning. You say afternoon. Tomato, tomahto.”
“Let’s call the whole thing off,” he says dryly as the limo pulls out of the portico.
“Are you trying to impress me with your musical knowledge?” I ask, giving myself a virtual pat on the back. I’m sixty seconds in, and I’m earning my no-flirt trophy with panache.
“Is that all it takes? Just rattling off a commonly known set of lyrics? I had no idea you were that easy.”
I suck in a breath, doing my best to resist, but that’s some low-hanging fruit. And I need to pluck it. “I think you absolutely know how easy I am.”
Jackson rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, and stares out the window.
And . . . maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
Did I need to remind the guy that I’m a hound dog? Might as well have howled at the moon. Humped a stuffed alligator like my brother’s horny little Chihuahua does.
Easy.
That’s not really a compliment to the person you were easy with.
Only one way to course correct. Make a joke. “Just kidding, J-man. Nothing easy about me. I’m hard as a rock,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows, and that’s so much better.
Not.
But I can right this ship.
I stretch out my legs in front of me. “Anyway, I slept like the dead last night. Didn’t drag my ass out of bed till eleven, and it was beautiful. How about you?”
“I was up early.” His tone is crisp, businesslike. But that’s par for the course with Captain Stoic.