“That’s what I like to hear. And that must be why she’s only said good things about you,” Eliza says with a grin.
“Excellent. Paying her off, then, was a good idea,” I joke.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
Maybe that’s a good sign that we’ve fallen into our old habits, back to poking each other. That’s where we want to be, rather than in Dirty GIF Land.
I invite him to join us, but he declines, waiting instead by the entrance to the restaurant.
Another promising sign that all will be well, and that I’ll stop thinking about his fine-ass body soon.
Very soon.
I’m sure the idea of him naked will frolic away from my brain any second.
When lunch is over, Jackson and I return to the hotel, shooting the breeze about football, debating which NFL teams have a shot this season.
Yeah, we’ve gone back to the way we were.
This is all good.
But when he remarks that the Renegades are good with the long game, that one word boomerangs me back to Filthyville.
Long.
My God, the man just has it going on.
Here I go again. Double life. Talking football strategies with my mouth and thinking about tackling him in my head.
Is he fighting this same battle, living with twin trains of thought?
Because this continues throughout the day and into the next. I have the clean train and the dirty one.
I can go about my business, talk about music and the meaning of life, but images of Jackson flicker before me.
His eyes squeezed shut in the limo, his hands gripping my face, his dick buried deep in my throat, his taste flooding my tongue.
Him lowering his body onto mine and kissing me.
And a third one.
His pizza goodbye.
My resistance breaks down once more that night when I’m alone.
Once the door shuts to my hotel room, I proceed to take my dick in my hand and imagine all the other things I want from him.
I want him to take my dick in his mouth.
Want him to come on me.
Want him to curl his body over mine, slide into me, and fuck me into the pillows until I can’t see straight.
And I’m stroking one out to that in mere minutes.
Then collapsing and contemplating.
With guys, I’ve always been versatile, but topping a little more often.
That’s what I like. I like to fuck. I like to fuck women and to fuck men. That all makes sense to me. It all fits my understanding of my bisexuality.
Mine.
Some people claim bisexuality isn’t a destination. They say it’s a way station on the train to being gay.
I say fuck either-or labels. Sexuality is fluid. You don’t have to pick sides.
For me, all I know is this – I like my brownies with and without nuts.
Same applies to people.
I enjoy curves and soft feminine skin, and I enjoy muscles and a firm chest, and I enjoy contact.
So topping a little more often makes sense.
But with Jackson, I want him in all new ways. In every way.
Maybe that’s the joy of being bi. The joy of being vers.
This is who I am.
And this me wants that man in whatever way he wants to have me. I’m not sure what to make of that, or if I should try to make something of it at all.
Actually, I am sure. The smart action is to make nothing of it, and that’s exactly what I should do.
The barrage of activity continues, but by the next night, I resign myself to it. I’m used to this double life, the way I say one thing and imagine another. But being present is hard. I want to focus on people. I swear I do.
When I go to an event with Nadia on Sunday night, I meditate beforehand. I vow to be in the moment at the fundraiser.
With her. With him. With everyone.
It works well enough on the way over, thanks to Zane.
Once I slide into the limo, my phone blinks with a text from my brother.
Zane: Dude. I’ve got a guacamole sitch.
I chuckle, though it’s not funny that he needs a safe word. But it’s a funny term, and more so, I can share it with Jackson. Flashing back on the plane conversation with my bodyguard, I brandish the screen.
“That’s no good,” he says, sympathy coloring his tone. “You need help with that at all? Anything I can do?”
How about not saying shit that makes you seem awesome all the time?
I smile and shake my head, willing that dumb organ in my chest to calm down. “I should ferret the deets from him first.”
I tap out a reply.
Stone: Are we talking little dribbles or full guac explosion?
Zane: Guac everywhere. Can I call you later?
Stone: Dude. How is that even a question? You can call me anytime. That’s why I have a phone.
Zane: Love you, man. Will call tonight.
We arrive at the event, and I pat myself on the back for successfully making it through one limo ride filthy-thought free.
Nadia’s waiting in the lobby bar at Aria, looking like an angel in a satiny gold dress that clings to her curves, with sparkly pins in her hair that catch the light.
“Damn, woman. You look fine tonight,” I say with a most appreciative whistle.
She juts out a hip, then bats her lashes. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the women on my arm at fundraisers for my favorite charities.”
“Speaking of, let’s go work the room.”
“Don’t I always?” I wink as I drape an arm around her.
“You do, my friend, you absolutely do.”
I stop, remembering Candi’s orders. “Hold on.” I dip into the pocket of my tailored slacks, fishing for my phone. “Smile for Insta? Candi made me promise I wouldn’t forget a shot, and if I do, I have to give her my LA home.”
Nadia taps her chin. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll forget to take the pic so she can get your house.”
I’m holding out the camera at arm’s length when Jackson steps in. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks, J.”
I hand him the phone. He takes the snap, then gives it back.
After I thank him, Nadia waggles her fingers at the man by my side. “Hey, Jackson. Good to see you again.”
“Pleasure to see you too, Nadia,” he says, as businesslike and gracious as he’s ever been.
But as we head into the ballroom to the tune of a new Black Keys number, one quick glimpse at Jackson reveals his stoic mask firmly in place. But it’s been superimposed over his jealousy mask.
Oh me, oh my, do I love that jealousy mask something fierce.
But I stay in the moment. I chat up donors. I work my magic.
Once the event ends and I say goodbye to Nadia, I slide into the car, Jackson behind me.
It’s déjà vu.
Jealousy and limos.
Tension and nighttime.
And here we are, where it all started. I wish it were happening again. I wish I could rewind time to that night, do it all a second time. Wish I could saddle up once more at the Jackson Rodeo.
He tips his chin at me. “Good time tonight?”
“It was great.”
“You looked like you were having fun with Nadia,” he says, and my radar beeps once more.