Would it deter me?
But then, deter me from what?
I’m not pursuing him. I can’t pursue him. We drew our lines.
Jackson answers quickly enough, shaking his head. “No, but we lived together for a couple of years. We were together. Committed partners.”
But now that I know, the intel doesn’t bother me. It kind of impresses me, knowing that he has it in him to live a life of devotion. So many of the pieces of Jackson are coming together. They’re making sense. The picture of him colors in, and I like what I see.
“What went wrong, J?” I ask softly, wishing I could touch him, run a hand along his arm.
But then, why can’t I?
I’m a toucher. That’s how I’m wired. I need it, and I can sense this man does too. I stretch out my right hand, sliding it along his wrist.
For a second, he shivers, and it’s both sexy and tender.
Then he swallows. Pain flashes across his eyes as he meets my gaze. “He was killed doing a motorcycle stunt. A triple jump for prize money.” He shakes his head, huffing. “He was a YouTube daredevil. Did stunts for social media. He died about two years ago.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. Does it still hurt?”
Pursing his lips, he takes his time answering. “I’m fine. I appreciate you asking. But truly, I’m okay.”
The way he says “okay” lingers in the air, like each letter hovers in its own space. It doesn’t sound like a half-baked okay. It sounds like an okay in the good sense of the word. The kind you aspire to.
Especially when he adds, “I’m definitely a lot better now.”
I swear he holds my gaze with import, with intensity. And that intensity does something to my insides. Makes them flip.
This is a brand-new sensation. One I haven’t felt before.
Maybe I’m reading into his answer in a way I shouldn’t.
Or maybe my mind is running ahead of me.
I don’t entirely understand why my pulse is skittering. I just know that it is.
“What about you?” Jackson asks. “Have you ever been serious with anyone?”
Letting go of his arm, I scratch my chin, considering the question. “I’ve dated. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve had boyfriends. But nothing that ever amounted to much. Nothing that ever felt serious. If anything, when I was with someone, it felt more like casual dating for a while. If that makes sense. Someone I’d go to events with. Someone I’d see at galas and premieres, at restaurants and such. That probably sounds silly to you,” I say, since it sounds shallow to me now that I give it voice.
He shakes his head. “No judgment. You live how you live. You love how you love.”
“I don’t know that it was love. Not like what you had. Were you going to marry him?”
“Probably. But that wasn’t in the cards.”
One more puzzle piece snaps into place. “In the limo. That night. You said it had been a while for you,” I say, taking my time with the details, trying to understand why they’re making my pulse spike even harder. “You haven’t been with anyone since him?”
“That is true. No one till you,” he adds, like he needs to clarify that point, or maybe just bring it up front and into the open, like I did with my question.
And, hell, I like that I’m the first guy he’s been with.
But why?
Makes no sense why I’d dig that nugget of info.
I’m a player. Always have been. Probably always will be.
“Interesting.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why my throat is dry, why my head is spinning with wild ideas, why my skin is prickling with something like anticipation.
I can’t be anticipating anything, because nothing is going to happen with this guy and me.
Except dinner. Hopefully really soon, because I am hungry.
“And you? You like to play the field?” Jackson asks, but there’s no judgment in his tone. Only curiosity, only interest.
But I don’t answer, because the waiter swings by with our food, and we tuck in. As I take a bite, moaning about how delicious the lion chow is, I answer in my head.
I like to play the field because the field is awesome. Because I love sex, I love contact, I love closeness.
I also like to play the field because it’s all I’ve known from a life lived on the road.
A life where falling in love was never an option.
A life where moving, doing, acting, singing, living, and playing was all I knew.
“I’ve liked playing the field,” I say, answering him at last. “But it also fit with the last ten years of my life, you know? Being on the road. Tours. Concerts. Press junkets. Never settling down. Know what I mean?”
“I do. I get you. It fits you,” he says.
“And do you like being serious?”
He slices a piece of chicken. “It feels more like my natural state. My last job was also local in Los Angeles, so I had a whole daily life there with . . . Fabian.”
My chest twists.
A strange piercing sensation winds through me now that I know the name of his partner. Sounds Brazilian. Now that I’m picturing him, he could have been a hot guy from Rio de Janeiro maybe. Handsome as a movie star to have nabbed Jackson.
A few seconds ago, Jackson’s dead partner was just a guy.
Now he has a name.
And he had the key to Jackson’s heart, but he broke it with a choice.
That piercing in me turns black, hard. Borderline angry. Because I’m pissed at that guy for hurting Jackson.
For causing him all that pain.
But then, life happens.
It plays out the way it does, and here he is.
Across from me.
Is it selfish that I like where he is now? That I like him here with me? On the road with me? Having dinner with me?
He eats the slice of chicken, chews, then finishes the thought. “I’ve always gravitated toward relationships. I guess it’s just the kind of person I am.”
“You really don’t do hookups ever?” I ask, then take a bite of my pasta.
“No, I haven’t. I guess until that one time with you.”
Ah, hell.
This delights me.
It shouldn’t.
But it absolutely delights me to no end, even though I know nothing is going to happen between us. Except my stupid heart is dancing some kind of crazy jig. Because he bent for me.
I let go of the jealousy I feel for his past, and I slide my boot under the table, rubbing the toe against his shoe. “Call me crazy, but I think that’s sexy.”
He laughs. “Why on earth would you think that’s sexy?”
“You tell me, Jackson. All I can figure is I think everything about you is sexy,” I say, and lest the moment become too heavy, I lighten it. “And now that I know you’re as gay as a guy who likes sucking cock, I am allowed to think how sexy you are all the time.”
I set down my fork with a flourish, wiggle a brow, and lick my lips salaciously.
Because this is me—easy, free, playing the field.
He laughs. “And how’s that working out for you? Is it driving you crazy knowing nothing is gonna happen?”
“So damn crazy,” I mutter.
I’m crazier, too, when my brother joins us a few minutes later and it’s no longer a date.
But I have to remind myself it was never one.