I listen to every word, loving my guy’s brain, the way he’s devised this in such a short period of time, but how it feels so right. He’s so good at helping and mentoring. It’s part of who he is—someone who looks out for others and guides younger folks as they rise up in their careers and lives.
Plus, there’s another aspect of it I dig.
I slide my hand under the table, squeezing his big, strong thigh. “I love that you’re going to be in LA.” I shoot him a devilish grin. “Did you happen to know I live in LA when I’m not on the road?”
“You do? I had no idea,” he deadpans.
I nod, big and long. “In Venice. I’ve got an awesome pad. Looks over the ocean. Badass third-floor balcony too, with a perfect view. Also, an infinity pool.”
“Show-off.”
I shrug, taking a sip of my tea. “Maybe. I don’t have another tour for a few months. I’m going to be there a lot.”
“You don’t say.” Jackson shoots me a grin as he takes a bite of his eggs.
I wiggle a brow. “You should come over.”
“Yeah? Just to check out this pad?”
“Or to see me.”
He rolls his eyes. “You dumbass. I better see you.”
I lean over, planting another kiss on his cheek. “I want to see you so often that you’ll get sick of me.”
“Stone,” he says, all serious. “Don’t know how to break this to you, but I’ve seen you nearly every day for the last six months, sometimes for eight hours a day. Lately, more. I’m not sick of you at all. In fact, it’s the opposite.” Jackson slides a hand along my leg and lets out a low murmur, “I want to see you as much as I can.”
“Every day?”
“Every day. Every night,” he says, and my heart melts.
“You, me, Los Angeles. It’s going to be motherfucking awesome.”
“Yes, it is. But for the record, you had me at ‘balcony,’” he says with a smile.
We finish breakfast, and his phone buzzes. He grabs it and slides open the screen.
“Text from Bethany. She is dying for me to call. She texted me twenty million times last night.” His brow furrows like he’s lost in thought. “Would you want to go to Portland and see her perform in Rent?” He looks at his watch. “Say, tomorrow?”
There’s nothing I want more than to have that life with my man. So I say yes.
“On one condition,” I add.
“What’s that?”
“Can we take my plane?” I ask with a wicked grin.
“Like I said. Show-off,” he mutters.
I kiss him one more time. “Is that a yes?”
Jackson nods, then brushes his lips to mine. “Yes. On one condition.”
“What’s your condition?”
He whispers in my ear what he wants to do to me on the plane.
“Check, please,” I say, then we go back to my suite, where he gives me a preview, and I’m moaning and groaning and loving every second of it.
When he’s done, it’s time to go hit a local studio.
I’ve got a track to lay down.
39
Jackson
Terrence waggles his eyebrows when I meet him and Cruz at the blackjack table that night. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Five Million Views.”
I blow on my fingernails. “Is that all?”
As I grab a seat, Terrence laughs. “Seems like a lot to me. Melody said it was, at least on YouTube.” He furrows his brow as he checks his cards. “But now that I think about it, hell if I know what that means. Is that a lot, Cruz?”
Our buddy shrugs. “Don’t ask me. I can’t even remember my password for Instagram,” Cruz offers, studying his cards.
The dealer clears her throat and shoots us a lip-glossed smile. “That’s a lot. There were seven hundred thousand views on Facebook, two million on Insta, and about the same on Twitter.” The blonde giggles like she’s in on a secret. “That was something, all right.”
“It sure was,” Terrence chimes in.
“I was hoping I’d catch a glimpse of you,” the dealer says to me, a little shyly.
“Want to ask him for his autograph?” Cruz asks, like he’s my publicist now. “If you have a pizza box somewhere, that’d be worth a ton of money.”
I roll my eyes. “Ignore him.”
The woman smiles and shakes her head, a little amazed. “Everyone’s been talking about it. It’s one of those ‘I was there’ moments.”
Cruz punches my shoulder. “Aww. Can we make you the spokesperson for our new company?”
Terrence’s dark eyes twinkle with delight. “Yes. Let’s say ‘Founded by . . . The Guy in the Picture.’”
Both of those assholes break into song, crooning the lines to Stone’s new hit. The one he’s recording right now for a quick release, with a backup bodyguard watching over him.
“All of these pictures . . .” Terrence sings.
“Pictures of you . . .” Cruz weighs in.
And the dealer harmonizes with “That’s when it started . . .”
“C’mon, guy. Sing with us,” Cruz says with a smirk.
I wave a hand dismissively. “I’m outta here.”
My buds crack up, slapping down their cards. “Man, we are going to have so much fun giving you hell.”
“It’s going to be the best. Every single day we can give this guy a hard time for being Pattie Boyd,” Terrence adds. “This song could be the next ‘Layla.’”
Cruz nudges me. “Hey, if it becomes Stone’s next big hit, you need to get in on the royalties.”
I laugh it off as they finish their hand. “Don’t need royalties. I’m all good.” But that’s not true yet. I do need to get the motorcycle monkey off my back. That’ll happen in due time though.
We’re starting our company as soon as possible, and once these guys finish their hand, we’re going to grab some grub and discuss the next steps.
Funny, how that familiar knot of tension doesn’t appear in my neck anymore as I think about paying the bills, either for the credit card company or our new venture.
Who knows when we’ll start making money? But I’ll figure it out. I’m not going to let the past stop me from enjoying every second of my present.
“Want to play a round?” the dealer asks.
“No, thanks. You need me to give up my seat?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You can stay here all night. You’re half of Jackstone.”
Terrence huffs, faux annoyed. “Can’t believe we’re going to have to put up with your big head.”
“You are, because I’m the brains and the brawn,” I say coolly.
“You wish,” Cruz says, but our conversation is cut short when his phone beeps.
Mine does too.
So does Terrence’s.
“Simultaneous beeps,” he muses.
We all grab our phones like we’re drawing weapons.
I slide my thumb across the screen.
An envelope icon pops up at the top of my notifications.