One Time Only Read online

  My gaze drifts to the man next to me. Jackson Pearce.

  Even his last name is smoking hot. He sounds like an action man. Like he has a TV adventure series. But then, everything about him is surface-of-Mercury temperature.

  Figures he’d be straight.

  So many of the hottest ones are. But I’ll never lament that when I was born with the good fortune to be able to consider all the offerings at any table.

  Callum rises, patting me on the back. “Thanks again, man.”

  I slice a hand through the air. “Say nothing of it. That’s what friends are for.”

  “I owe you,” Callum adds, serious and intense.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I register that Jackson’s jaw ticks. Like he’s the slightest bit peeved.

  Which is weird.

  Why would he be ticked by Callum’s words?

  But then, my bodyguard has no patience for my antics some nights.

  Most nights.

  No biggie. That only makes me want to give J-man more antics.

  Especially since I’m not in the mood whatsoever for this night to end. Sure, I’m ready to say sayonara to my buds, but bedtime doesn’t interest me. Talking, chilling, chatting—that absolutely does, since I’m still buzzing from the high of the concert.

  After Ivy and Callum leave, Jackson shifts to a chair across from me, probably so he can get a better view of the exit now that the others are gone.

  “Just you and me, J-man. Should we get some Ben and Jerry’s and have a gabfest? Or play Would You Rather?”

  He snorts, rolling his eyes. “You don’t like Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “Figures that’s what you’d home in on. Trying to catch me on a technicality. But I do like ice cream in general.”

  “Everyone likes ice cream in general,” he counters.

  “Do you? I’ve never seen you eat it.”

  “Is that important to you when it comes to your security detail? That you have visual proof of me licking an ice cream cone?”

  I linger on that image for a few seconds, though I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But in my defense, he planted it in my head.

  The tempter that he is.

  I’m picturing Jackson’s tongue licking a mint chip cone, and that’s so not fair.

  “Yes. I would like proof very much,” I say, then return to the immediate issue—what comes next. “So, the way I see it is this—we could go out for cones or have another drink. After all, we had an epic show tonight. We need to celebrate.”

  He cocks his head, arches a brow, and, after a second, asks, “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Celebrating?”

  An edge slices his voice, reminding me of his jaw ticking a few moments ago, but I don’t let either deter me. “Why stop, then?” I stretch my arms out wide across the back of the booth.

  He’s stoic, as he often is. Then, after a few seconds, Jackson nods, neat and crisp. “I’m on the job, but I’ll take a seltzer water.”

  “Let’s get this man a seltzer, then.” I call the server over and order another bubbly water for my favorite bodyguard, then a Macallan for me.

  “Glad to see you’re not trying to slip away,” I tease when the server takes off.

  Jackson barely cracks a grin. “I believe the job entails me not slipping away.”

  I slam my hand to my chest, like I’m mortally wounded. “You’re only here for the job?”

  He raises a brow, his expression amused. “Did you think I was here for the bubbly water?”

  “The company, man. The goddamn company. Moi.”

  He smirks. “And the company pays well, so thank you for not hiring volunteer bodyguards.”

  I reach out an arm and smack him on the shoulder.

  The rock-hard shoulder.

  That’s my guy.

  He’s a solid mass of man.

  Those pics on the Web that show a big-ass dude looking out for Radcliffe or Gaga or whoever? The kind of guy who, when you discover his picture on the internet, you share it all over your Facebook page, your Instagram, your Twitter?

  Jackson is that kind of guy.

  When his pics show up, comments flood the page.

  Peeps weigh in saying if he were protecting them, they’d arrange for trouble so he’d have to wrap his arms around them.

  Understandably.

  He’s got short dark-blond hair, close-cropped. Piercing hazel eyes that see into your soul. Thick, strong, muscular legs. A flat-as-a-board stomach. The man was a Marine and tops six foot four, maybe five. There’s no one else you’d want protecting you.

  And the uniform? It’s pure porn. Blue slacks. A tight button-down that stretches across his chest, the sleeves rolled up and showing off the veins in his forearms. He’s everything you could want in a protector.

  He’s a triple-take dude.

  No, wait. That’s wrong. He’s a perma-take. You can’t stop looking at him.

  And yet . . .

  I won’t get caught up in what I can’t have. I might like everything, but I respect the hell out of boundaries.

  I like women who like men and I like men who like men, but I do not ever try to turn a guy who’s straight. What would be the point? The way I see it, there’s a whole wide world out there teeming with men and women who like to play, who like to have fun, same as I do.

  Fun should never come with shame. Or regret. Or doubt.

  When I’m with Jackson, I focus on having a good time with my employee. Though “employee” feels like such a weird term for the person who’s by my side all day long.

  The person I do almost everything with.

  When the waiter brings the next round, Jackson thanks him then lasers in on me. “So, what’s on your mind tonight, boss? You going to give me a hard time about whether the Beatles are better than the Stones, if mustard is harder to live without than ketchup, or whether California is a cooler state than New York?”

  Out of habit, I answer, “Stones, mustard, Cali.”

  But then I tilt my head, latching onto something in his voice.

  A note.

  A sound.

  Almost like he doesn’t want to leave this scene either.

  Almost like he wants to stay, for reasons I can’t quite figure out.

  But I want to. Oh hell, do I want to.

  2

  Jackson

  Just to be clear, this is all I’ll allow.

  Surface talk.

  Nothing deeper.

  Nothing more.

  These random debates we engage in keep my mind off the white-hot lust that’s camped out in my chest.

  Shooting the breeze in a bar won’t get under my skin.

  Well, no more than anything with him does.

  No more than any talk.

  Any moment.

  Any night with my client, the sexy-as-sin rock star who I hate being attracted to.

  The guy with the long, lean body.

  With the ink painted all over his toned arms, his trim chest, his tight abs.

  Yes, I’ve seen him with his shirt off.

  The whole world has.

  It’s his thing. He rips off his T-shirt at the end of the occasional show and tosses it into the audience.

  I’ve seen those damn shirts go up for sale on eBay for a few thousand, sometimes more. I’ve told him he should donate them to charity. He says they’re for the fans, and he wants the fans to be happy.

  It’s yet another topic we don’t see eye to eye on.

  We disagree on nearly everything.

  That helps my keep-my-hands-off-him cause.

  So, when he tosses the Beatles versus Stones, mustard versus ketchup, and California versus New York questions back at me, I deliberately pick the opposites.

  “Beatles, ketchup, New York,” I say, and I take a drink of the seltzer.

  He huffs, as if mortally wounded by my different tastes. “The next thing I know you’re going to tell me you prefer Santana’s cover of ‘Black Magic Woman’ to the Fleetwood Mac classic,” S
tone says.

  I give him my most serious stare. “Everyone does. That’s up there on the list of cover songs that are better than the original. Like the Fugees ‘Killing Me Softly’ is better than Roberta Flack’s, Jeff Buckley’s ‘Hallelujah’ beats Cohen’s, and Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’ absolutely surpasses Dylan’s.”

  He curses. “Dammit.”

  I grin. “I’m right. And you know it.”

  His eyes narrow—those intense green eyes that are so gorgeous, that I hate that I love looking at. “You’re right,” he grumbles. “The Fugees killed it with that tune. Buckley rendered all other cover songs impotent. And yes, Hendrix’s version is better, but Santana’s? Don’t make me play you both.”

  I wag a finger. “Don’t make me prove you wrong, man. Maybe you want to try another music debate.”

  “I’m always game for a musical debate.”

  “Hit me up, then,” I say. I’m a glutton for punishment.

  “Fine, how’s this?” Stone sets his empty glass on the table at Speakeasy and pierces me with those eyes. “You can’t possibly count Imagine Dragons as alt.”

  I shrug with a smirk. “I can, and I do.”

  He stabs the table with his finger. “That’s sacrilege, man. That’s what my teenage sister listens to.”

  I laugh. Like he thinks I don’t know that’s a big fat lie. “Stone, come on. What do you take me for? You don’t have a teenage sister.”

  “Exactly. That’s my point.” He leans back in the booth, stretching his long legs in front of him.

  I narrow my brows. “You invented a sister to make a point? That makes zero sense.”

  “That’s who listens to Imagine Dragons. Teenage girls. I’m not saying they aren’t a cool band. I’m not saying their music isn’t dope. But my point is they’re not alt rock, even if they started on college stations. Teens love them. Alt rock is not for teens. Ergo . . .”

  That’s my opening, my way to needle him, since needling Stone is how I handle the gallons of lust I feel for him. I nod like I’m absorbing his point. “What you’re saying is you don’t like music that teenagers enjoy. You’re saying that if a teenager likes it, it’s not quality music,” I say, having fun winding him up.

  It takes my mind off this absolutely inconvenient attraction.

  His voice rises, full of conversational fury. “That’s not what I said at all, and you know it. You’re just twisting my words to suit yourself.”

  I crack up. “You think that’s what I’m doing? I’m twisting everything the great Stone Zenith says to win my argument?”

  “Maybe you are. Does it suit your agenda?” He finishes that question edging up on the last word like it means something else.

  Maybe it does. That’s the crux of my problem.

  Determined to overcome this weakness, I focus on the subject of music, only music. “Seems you’re the one twisting logic to support your argument that teens don’t have musical taste. Did you know I have a sixteen-year-old sister?”

  I wait for his answer. I’m confident he doesn’t know this detail about me, because I don’t share shit with him and my life is not lived on the internet. I’m not the open book he is. The book of me is closed, and there is no social media to scroll through.

  For reasons. For necessary reasons—namely self-preservation.

  He huffs. “No. Thanks a lot for trusting me with your innermost secrets about your siblings.”

  I laugh. “Thanks for never asking.”

  “Would you have answered if I had?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Why don’t you ask and find out?”

  He takes a deep breath, like he’s settling himself. “Jackson Pearce, do you have a sixteen-year-old sister? And while we are doing the family tree thing, do you have any other siblings?”

  I grin. “I have a twenty-six-year-old sister named Caroline who’s a high school algebra teacher. She’s also good at chess, and she and her boyfriend do competitive couples kayaking together. Bethany is my sixteen-year-old sister, and she likes all kinds of music. She likes Imagine Dragons and Nirvana, the Beatles and Alanis Morissette, show tunes and Greyson Chance. She also likes Beethoven. Her taste is wide and varied and eclectic. Also, Imagine Dragons’ ‘Radioactive’ was first released on alt radio before major labels picked it up.”

  That musical debate mic drop leaves Stone speechless for a minute. He drags a hand through his shoulder-length hair, lingering through the strands, making me think for the briefest of seconds what it would feel like to run my hands through those dark-brown locks.

  How it would be to tighten a fist around it. Tug it. Yank his head back.

  I tell myself to settle down. What I really ought to be telling myself is to walk away. I should not sit here at this bar with him. I should not have a conversation with him where we’re simply talking.

  Talking leads to feelings.

  I have to stop believing this kind of talking is okay if it’s surface level.

  None of these feelings for him are okay.

  Especially not tonight.

  Especially knowing he was in the suite with Ivy and Callum, her bodyguard. That’s what’s driving me crazy—the thought of what he might have been doing in there with everyone.

  But maybe especially with Callum. Especially with another guy.

  My muscles tense all over at the reminder, like someone turned the crank inside me.

  Stone sets his elbows on the table. “But why do I have to ask? Why don’t you ever share?”

  His question pierces me, as if he can poke through the protective layer I wear when I’m around him. The one to keep him away because I can’t stand how I feel.

  I pick up my glass, drain the rest of the drink, and set it down. Then I sidestep the messy truth. I don’t share, because I don’t want to let him in. It’s easier to make him think he’s keeping me out.

  I give a casual shrug. “Because you don’t really talk about anything besides yourself.”

  Stone points at me, incensed. “That’s not true. You know that’s a bald-faced lie. We talk all the time. We talk as we walk. I don’t walk ten feet in front of you. I walk next to you all the time, brother,” he says, his words piling on top of each other. The man is worked up, and it’s kind of hot, kind of sexy.

  Wait. Better revise that to all hot, all sexy.

  “Yeah, you do?” I ask, just to keep him going, to hear him talk, because I’m a masochist.

  “I walk next to you every day and we discuss restaurants, clubs, the cities we go to . . . We talk about shit all the time.”

  He’s not wrong. But tonight is different. The late hour possesses its own kind of energy, and so does this place, this bar, this conversation. It all feels dangerously close to not work. It feels too personal. And I’m simmering with my own latent jealousy, an emotion that’s starting to make its way to the front burner. Nighttime tempts you to cross lines you shouldn’t cross. So, once more, I deflect. “And yet I know you have a little brother and you didn’t know I had any sisters.”

  He slams a palm against the table. “That does not count. None of that counts. You do not get to say that about me, because the world knows about Zane. The world knows I have a little brother. Hell, he joined me on a concert tour a few years ago, doing the lights. Everyone knows everything about me. I am all over the internet. And you? You’re nowhere. You exist in this bubble of no one knowing anything about you.”

  I lean across the table, closer to him, in his space. Maybe a sick part of me likes doling out crumbs. Maybe that part likes it because it gives me some semblance of control over this desire. “Fine. So, since we supposedly talk, do you have any idea where I grew up?”

  He pauses, like he’s cycling through options on a multiple-choice question.

  I laugh. “I guess that’s a no.”

  “Just tell me, man—where did you grow up? Don’t play these little information games.”

  But games are a necessity with him. “I bet you’d like to
know.”

  “Oh, so that’s how we’re doing it? You giveth, then you taketh away.”

  And I crack up. The man makes me crazy. He makes me laugh, and he makes me feel sometimes like this isn’t a job. Hell, he makes me feel that way often.

  I toss him a bone. “I’m from Maine.”

  The grin that crosses Stone’s face is epic. “Jackson Pearce is from Maine. It’s all coming together. I’m picturing you at a lake house. Some gorgeous view. Your dad was a lobster fisherman. Am I right? Tell me I’m right. I know I’m right.”

  I stare straight at him. “My dad’s a firefighter.”

  “That tracks.”

  I look at my watch.

  My shift ends soon.

  I need to cut this conversation off—it’s too much fun.

  This can’t last all night. His friends went back to their suite, and that’s my reminder that he has places to be. That this attraction I feel for him is going nowhere. Time to put it not just on the back burner, but in the ice chest.

  “Don’t you need to return to your private party?” I bite out.

  “No,” he says, all casual. “I’m done there.”

  I seethe inside, black tar roiling through my veins. I try, I try so damn hard not to picture him at his private party, not to see what he might have been doing a few hours ago.

  “Where do you want to go, then?” I ask, aiming to keep my tone even.

  But failing miserably.

  I can hear the jealousy in it.

  All I can do is hope he doesn’t pick up on it.

  3

  Stone

  Where do I want to go?

  That is the question.

  I drag my hand through my hair and listen for the siren call of midnight seduction. This is Vegas after all. I could do anything, go anywhere—I have the world at my feet.

  But I’m having far too much fun with my bodyguard.

  And that’s a problem.

  The longer I spend with him like this, all casual and chill, the more my little head is going to try to occupy the big head and plant all kinds of inappropriate thoughts upstairs.

  Thoughts that make me wonder why he said, Don’t you need to return to your private party? as if it bugged the shit out of him.