When she lets go, she twists her sleek black hair into a bun, stabs a pencil through it to hold it in place, and rattles off the plan to Jackson. “Stone is visiting the community center that he’s donating ten percent of the concert proceeds to, then he has a five p.m. interview at the local radio station about his concert series. The station has been teasing it all day, so expect crowds. If you need help, I did my Krav Maga last night.”

  “Thanks. I was hoping to sign you on as backup,” he says dryly.

  She flashes him a grin. “You’ve got me, then, big guy.”

  Big guy. If she only knew. He is big everywhere.

  See? That’s the problem. Once you see somebody naked, you always see them naked.

  As the three of us head to the elevator, Jackson walks next to me, and I make my first attempt to return to the way we were.

  I make a show of looking at a watch I don’t wear. “Since it’s four in the afternoon, I’m guessing you already wrote a peace treaty, ran a marathon, and mastered Japanese?”

  “I slept in till seven. So, the answer is no.”

  Candi gives a comrade-in-arms laugh. “I hear ya. That flight last night wore me out too.”

  I fight like hell to suppress a grin over Jackson’s tacit confession that he was so worn out from messing around that he slept later than usual.

  I take that, clasp it in my hand, and steal it away for whenever I need a smile.

  The next day I’m still working on the no-thoughts-of-my-bodyguard-naked cause when Jackson and I weave through the casino, and I make small talk to cover it. The chitchat keeps me from saying something I shouldn’t, like “Have I told you my brain made GIFs of the way you take your shirt off?”

  I nod at the Aladdin slot machine as the character flies away on a magic carpet. “Do you play the slots?”

  “Never.”

  “Blackjack?”

  Jackson shakes his head.

  “Roulette? Craps? Baccarat?”

  “No. No. No.”

  “Fine. How about poker? I bet you play poker. Every dude likes poker.”

  A small grin comes my way. “I like poker. But no big stakes.”

  “Ah, I get it. You don’t like gambling.”

  He turns his gaze to me, meeting me dead in the eyes. “You’re right. I don’t care for gambling.”

  It comes out darkly, and all the latent sexy images fall from my head.

  As he scans the joint, looking around, staying close by my side, I know there’s more to that statement.

  “You’re not into risks?”

  “Life is full of risks. The key to a good life is being smart enough to know which ones to take.”

  I stop in my tracks. I swear not a second exists between when I cease moving and when he does—he’s that tuned into me. As I look him over, I’m tempted to joke, to say he sounds like a fortune cookie.

  But the moment feels bigger than a wisecrack. “I’m getting the sense you know a little something about risk,” I say, and we resume our path through the casino to the car.

  “A little.”

  “And you don’t care for it?”

  “Been burned by it. Don’t need to get burned again.”

  “In love or business?” I ask, a little surprised that I’m diving in, but then I do want to know what makes this man tick. He has layers, and then his layers have layers. I want to peel them away and see under them, the same way I want to unravel a work of art, a poem, a song someone wrote that hits me right there in the chest.

  A sigh falls from his lips as we reach the portico. “Love,” he answers. “Definitely love. So, sometimes that’s best avoided.”

  I want to prod and poke at that answer. Jackson Pearce fascinates me. But Candi’s waiting for us, since we have another press interview.

  We all slide into the limo and make small talk about the fantastic cake Candi ordered from room service. But soon my mind returns to the night before last, when Jackson and I were together.

  The things he said.

  He mentioned a past. Mentioned cleaning up the mistakes from it.

  He said, too, that he hadn’t been with anyone in a while.

  That all has to be part of the risk he’s talking about avoiding.

  And if it’s been a long time since he was with anyone, what does that say about him and how he operates? Does he only hook up with people he’s serious about?

  Except he’s not serious about me—that much is clear. So, that’s a no.

  It’s more likely that someone hurt him.

  My teeth clench at the horrible thought. My jaw ticks. And for the first time, I’m not thinking about him naked. I’m pissed that someone did that to one of the best men I know.

  But is that a good sign? Does this mean I can stop thinking about him doing bad things to me all the time?

  The answer is no.

  The onslaught of dirty thoughts returns.

  I wake up picturing his lips wrapped around my dick—something I’d very much like to experience.

  And I don’t deviate from those thoughts the whole morning, even as I work out and do yoga.

  Yeah, that’s fun—doing downward dog while thinking about being boned.

  But I try my best to shove those filthy images to the far corner of my brain as I grab a drink with Callum at Speakeasy later that night.

  “Tell me everything, lover boy,” I say over a scotch. Jackson is outside the bar, and I doubt he’s jelly of Callum anymore, now that he knows what went down and what didn’t that night.

  “Everything? Like Marxist philosophy, the meaning of life, and the best Russian literature?” my longtime friend asks.

  “Yes, let’s talk Tolstoy and love. But mostly love. How is everything with you and your woman?”

  Callum grins. He tries to hide it, but he can’t. “She’s terrific. She’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

  I hold up a palm to high-five. “Knew it. Called it. You two are destiny. I love it.”

  “You did,” he says, lifting his glass to clink it with mine. “And thank you, Cupid. Now, what about you?”

  My eyes drift to the front entrance. “That is a good question, my friend.”

  A very good question, and I shift the topic because I don’t know how to answer it.

  The next day, I go to lunch with Sage Carmichael, one of the co-owners of The Extravagant. Sage’s friend Eliza joins us, which I’m stoked about, since she’s one of the majority stakeholders of the Las Vegas Hawks football team and I’m not only a diehard fan but also a friend of Eliza’s co-owner, Nadia.

  “Great to meet you,” I say to Eliza. “Officially. Nadia and I hung out a few times when I was in town the other month—rooting for the Hawks, of course, in her private suite at the stadium.”

  “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.

  Is he jealous again?

  Does he think Nadia and I are a thing?

  And do I want to make him jealous?

  My sense of fun perks up, eager to play. But another part of me says I should reassure the guy. Because he looks twisted up with envy.

  “We’ve been friends for a while,” I say.

  One eyebrow rises. “That so?”

  He’s cute when he’s jealous. It is going to be hard to resist playing games. “Yes, we are friends. Girls and boys can be friends.”

  “I’m aware of that. I have plenty of female friends.”

  “And Nadia is one of my many female friends.”

  “Great. It’s great to have friends.” It comes out clipped, tight.

  And I’ve got to press. I’ve got to know for sure. “Level with me, J. Are you jelly?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not in the least.”

  I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “Not even a little?”

  Jackson swallows roughly, looks away, then returns his gaze to me, like he’s working something over in his head. What’s going through his mind? Is he going to admit it? Deny it?

  “Stone, do you want me to be jealous?” It comes out quietly.

  And that’s not what I expected him to say.

  I expected a yes, or a no, or a sidestep. Not a challenge.

  But see, Jackson is a challenge. In so many ways. And I like the challenge of him. Maybe too much. And so much so I admit the truth. “Maybe I do.”

  “Why?”

  My gaze drifts down to his hands. They’re balled into fists. This is as hard for him as it is for me.

  “I wish I knew,” I admit, without any trace of bullshit.

  He drags a hand along the back of his neck—a telltale sign of stress.

  I hate to be the cause of it. “Hey, man,” I say from across the seat.

  Slowly, he turns his gaze to me. “Yeah?”

  “She’s a friend. Only a friend.”

  His lips are ruler straight for several seconds, then they curve into a small grin, almost one of gratitude.

  That look leads me on. Leads me down a path I shouldn’t travel. But I do anyway, saying, “I haven’t been with anyone since . . .” I let the words fall into the space between us, the space that seems to pulse with longing. “I know that’s not a long time, and you’re probably rolling your eyes. But I wanted you to know. There’s no one.”

  The grin seems to tug at his lips, and he tries to fight it off. But it pulls, it taunts, it grabs him, and soon enough the smile is all real.

  But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. He erases it. “Good to know,” he says, then adds, intensely serious, “And same for me.”

  The air between us crackles.

  It hums.

  His gorgeous hazel eyes blaze. With desire and dirty deeds. With longing and denial. With the same damn battles I’ve been fighting. And I know this week’s been as hard for him as it’s been for me.

  There’s an energy connecting us, and I want to embrace it, ride it, give into it.

  I want to crawl over to Jackson and ask for his mercy.

  I want to tease him, toy with him, play with him.

  Slide my hands up and down his chest, dip my face to his neck.

  “You and your ‘same for me,’” I murmur. “You’re making this hard for me.”

  He breathes out through his nostrils.

  Licks his lips.

  But he doesn’t move. “It’s hard for me too, Stone.”

  In our heated silence, his words from earlier in the week ring in my ears. Life is full of risks. The key to a good life is being smart enough to know which ones to take.

  I care about him too much to take another risk.

  I close my eyes so I’m not tempted to climb on top of him.

  But the images taunt me anyway. They tease me relentlessly, to the point where I’m clenching my fists and trying ruthlessly not to say anything. Like . . .

  I still want you.

  How about one more one-time-only?