The cold, cruel irony is that I’m paying for what killed him.

  After we finish our drinks, I take Bethany to school. We chat about Mom and Dad the whole way until her phone pings.

  “Oooh. It’s a new post from Shipping News,” she says.

  “You’re following the shipping business?”

  “No. It’s this Instagram feed. The name’s ironic. It’s about celebrity ships.”

  “English, please.”

  “Right. Mr. No Social Media. It’s a feed that pairs celebs with other celebs, or fictional characters with other fictional characters. Like Kirk and Spock, or Harry and Draco, or Groot and Rocket Raccoon.”

  We turn onto the street to her school, and I glance at her, sure she’s pulling my leg. “People want the tree and a raccoon to get together?”

  “The internet loves all sorts of pairings. I’ve seen you on there,” she says, tucking her phone away.

  I pull up to the curb, my eyebrows climbing into my hairline. “I’m on there? For what?”

  She gives me a classic duh look. “You and Stone.”

  I flinch. “What the . . . why . . . how?”

  There was no one around that night in the hallway. There are no cameras on that floor. How could anyone have pics of us?

  Laughing, she sets a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. It’s just an internet thing. It’s not bad. It’s like when a picture surfaces of the two of you. Like in the airport when you’re walking next to him through security. Or when you’re holding the door of a limo open for him and the paps take a shot.”

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Normal pics. Not salacious shots. That makes sense. Everyday images go along with my job. Stone’s publicist circulates those in the regular briefings. “Right. Sure. But aren’t there pics of Cruz or Terrence with him too?”

  “Sure, but not as many. I mean, the other bodyguards are fine-looking. Cruz has the whole Michael Peña vibe going for him, plus he speaks Spanish. But, for better or worse, Twitter thinks you’re hot. Instagram thinks you’re hot. And the world thinks Stone is hot.”

  I tug at my collar because it’s weird hearing that from my sister. Then I gesture for her to go on. “Continue.”

  “So, there are usually some comments about how you guys look together. How Stone should do you because you’re hot. Or vice versa.”

  I exhale sharply, since we’re getting a little too close for comfort. “People have time for this?”

  “It’s just fun. No one is saying you’re a thing. It’s just a ship. It’s a fandom thing, like Oh my God, if he was my bodyguard, I’d be all over that or Let’s make Jackstone a thing this year.”

  “Jackstone? What the hell is that?”

  “If you were together, the internet would call you Jackstone. Like Brad and Angelina were Brangelina. It’s cute.”

  I shake my head, amazed and amused. “Jackstone.”

  “Same-sex ships are a big thing in fandom. So, there you go. Bye.” She drops a kiss onto my cheek, scoots out of the car, and heads into school.

  I drive away, mulling over ships and internet trends and wondering if they mean anything or nothing at all.

  Nothing at all probably.

  So I put them out of my mind as I return to my parents, and spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon with them. Then, I head to the hotel to pick up Stone, and we make our way to the airport.

  One month, and he’s been true to his word.

  He’s been Stone the fun dude, Stone the rocker, Stone the “I’m having a blast” guy. He’s held on to his resolve, and so have I.

  Everything’s been the way it was before—because I can compartmentalize anything.

  And clearly he can too.

  Thank God.

  Neither of us has bent.

  Neither one of us has slipped.

  We are client and bodyguard.

  Not a thing—just a ship.

  As I drive, I ask Stone, “We’re heading off to Miami now?”

  When I checked the agenda, he had meetings scheduled there with some producers he works with. But Stone shakes his head. He drums his palms on the dashboard. “How would you feel about going back to Vegas?”

  “Vegas?” I ask, as if I’ve never heard of it. But what I’m really thinking is Vegas, the scene of the crime.

  “Brother, my managers inked a deal with The Extravagant.”

  “For another one-night-only show?”

  He shakes his head, his grin a deliciously satisfied one. “Nope. This is for a two-week residency starting at the end of next week. And we’re going there now to get everything in motion. Press interviews, rehearsals, and all that magic.”

  “Two weeks in Vegas?” I repeat, like I need to process this change of plans, and evidently I do. It’s not only the two weeks of the residency. It’s the nearly two weeks before the show starts.

  “Indeed. We’ve got suites at The Extravagant the whole time.”

  The setup is no different there than at any other place. Truly, it isn’t.

  The only difference is that Vegas is where I slipped. Vegas is where I pushed him up against the wall, dragged my lips over his, and kissed the breath out of him.

  Vegas is where I told him how much I wanted to fuck him.

  My gaze drifts briefly to the guy in the passenger seat. I take in his carved cheekbones, his turn-me-all-the-way-on stubble, his crooked grin.

  Then my eyes go lower, cataloging the ink on his strong, toned arms, all of it on display in his T-shirt with BoJack Horseman on the front.

  I snap my eyes back to the road, licking my lips and swallowing roughly.

  Trouble is, I still want to fuck him.

  Still want to feel him. Taste him. Have him.

  But a city is just a city—nothing more.

  Vegas doesn’t have a special hold on me.

  Besides, I don’t have to rely solely on my willpower. Stone has his too, and he’s been sticking to his resist-me challenge.

  “Vegas, baby,” I say with a smile. This is the gig. Keep the client safe and happy.

  And the gig is what I’m doing.

  I need this job to pay off the debt.

  The stupid debt that stresses me out.

  I try to shuck off the tension on the way to the private airport. I try to shed it even as I’m walking through security, focused on my job, not on myself, and not on the debts I have to pay for a man who didn’t respect my wishes.

  When we walk past the one sundry shop that’s peddling travel pillows that vibrate, Stone points to it. “You look like you could use one.”

  “Yes, I need a vibrating pillow for the flight. That’s not weird at all.”

  “Or . . . I give great massages.” His voice drops a little lower. “As you know.”

  A shudder slides through me at the memory of the way he ran his thumb over my neck that day in the limo, releasing all that tension. How good it felt.

  How it turned me on.

  Vegas.

  We aren’t even in the city, and already I feel its pull.

  The way it lowers my guard.

  “You do,” I answer, and hazard a glance his way.

  But he’s looking ahead, wearing his usual smile. I don’t know if he’s aware that nearly everything that comes out of his mouth is borderline flirty, nearly dirty.

  It’s just who he is.

  Maybe he didn’t mean to remind me. Maybe this is just part of Stone being Stone. And making a big deal out of something that’s not a big deal is me being me.

  Everything will be fine.

  The city won’t change me.

  I’m stronger than that.

  Tougher than Vegas.

  Soon, I’m on a private jet, soaring over the country, and I let go of all the things weighing on me. There’s only one solution for the stupid motorcycle—keep paying it off, since Fabian can’t.

  That’s what happens when you fall for an impulsive person, someone who puts his wishes first.

  Who tells you each stunt will be the last.

  Maybe I’m the fool because I took him at his word. I wanted so badly to believe him.

  But what’s done is done. The past is the past.

  I’ve moved on, and all I can do is keep my focus on my future.

  That means I’ll keep doing my job, something that comes naturally to me.

  Especially right now on Stone’s private jet. We gather near the front row, surrounded by his entourage—mama bear Candi, his publicist, and quick-witted Veronica, his manager, and the other bodyguards. Candi’s showing us the pic she posted on Instagram a few hours ago—a shot of Stone visiting an animal rescue in Portland, snuggling with senior cats and dogs who need homes.

  “And they were all adopted today,” she boasts.

  “You’re the rock star for setting it up,” Stone says.

  The whole crew chats about the upcoming tour, then we settle into our seats and I head toward the back row, my usual spot.

  There is not a chance of anything happening between the two of us, even with the lure of Vegas on the horizon.

  Besides, he issued his challenge and he delivered.

  I drew my lines, and I delivered too.

  But when he joins me in the back of the plane, those lines aren’t so clearly defined anymore.

  Nor am I sure I want them to be.

  9

  Stone

  One whole month.

  I made it through one entire month of no sex.

  Like a detox. As if I ate nothing but kale and drank only paprika juice. Did I miss the good stuff?

  Hell yeah.

  So much so that I whimpered.

  I nearly cried.

  I’ve been like one big blue ball for the last thirty days.

  But I’ve come out stronger on the other side.

  Sure, it took a lot of work. Some yoga. Some meditation. Lots of deep breathing. And, more than anything, a whole lot of determination.

  But now I feel like a brand-new man.

  Ready for anything.

  And, fine, maybe I’m ready to engage with Jackson without thinking about banging him the whole time. Or more like him banging me, because I like the idea of that a whole helluva lot.

  Wait. That’s what I’m trying to resist, brain.

  Fine, confession time—I didn’t cease everything. I mean, c’mon. Man cannot survive without his hand.

  These hands are my lifeline to my two favorite instruments, my Strat and my dick, and I’ve played both with abandon for the last month. I’ve made some beautiful solo music in the shower.

  In my bed.

  On the couch in my hotel room when I was watching my favorite show, You, on Netflix. Penn Badgley is one hot mofo. But then, I also enjoyed some videos of a babe who looked like Natalie Portman getting her rocks off.

  Much easier to keep my eyes trained on vids than to picture the man who wants to put me on my knees.

  But I’m all good.

  I am ready to show off my brand-new self, and this is the first semi-relaxed moment I’ve had with J-man in a while. The last few weeks have been packed with lunches, dinners, meetings, shows, and fans, fans, fans.

  Once we’re airborne and I’ve chatted with my manager and my publicist, I head to the back of the plane to join the man I’ve resisted, the reason for my kale-and-paprika lifestyle.

  Now’s not the time to tell him about my, for all intents and purposes, sixth gramophone.

  It is time to just . . . talk.

  I find him in a row by himself, reading his Spanish workbook, AirPods in. He’s mouthing words, as if he’s repeating what he’s hearing, testing them out with his own mouth.

  This guy. He never stops learning. I love that about him.

  He looks up, closes the book, and takes out the AirPods. “How’s it going?”

  “Excellent. Want some company?”

  Is it weird that I feel the slightest bit nervous? Hell, I just walked through the airport and got on the plane with him, but now I feel like I’m twenty and just asked a hot college guy out for coffee.

  “Sure.” Jackson picks up the magazine from the leather seat next to his so I can sit. Discover. The headline on the front page is about black holes.

  “Learn anything fascinating about”—I wave a hand airily—“how to escape from a black hole?”

  He shakes his head. “There is no escape from a black hole.”

  I snap my fingers as I flop down into the seat. “Good song title though. ‘Escape from a Black Hole.’”

  “Or,” he says, stroking his chin, “‘Escape from a Black Heart.’”

  I point at him, my eyes widening. “Yes, that’s a good one. I can hear it now.” I hum a few bars, riffing on the lines, till I realize something. “Sounds better like this—if only . . . I could escape . . . from my own black heart.”

  A small grin comes my way. “I’ll take half the royalties, thank you very much.”

  I hum a few more notes then slide into another topic. “So, Jackson Pearce from Portland, Maine . . .” Those words remind me of the night at The Extravagant. The night I learned this man can kiss like a champion. Like a goddamn gold medalist in the sport, art, and science of kissing me senseless. “How is everything with the family? Did you see Mom, Dad, good-at-chess-and-kayaking Caroline, and Morissette, Chance, and Beethoven-loving Bethany?”

  He rolls his eyes, but not like he’s annoyed. More like he’s all kinds of impressed. Hell, I’m impressed. “Well played, Stone.”

  I tap my temple. “Got my Rolodex on you now, J-man. Keeping all that intel locked up here for when I need it. So, how’s the fam?”

  “Everyone was great. I took them out to dinner. Not a lobster place. It was—”

  “Let me guess.” I slap my hand against my forehead, fortune-teller-style. “Italian.”

  “Yes.” He’s taken aback. “How did you know?”

  I blow on my fingernails. “I know Italian’s your favorite. I guessed it came from the family.”

  “Good guess.”

  “And are your parents cool about stuff? Are you guys close?” I ask conversationally, but I suspect he gets my meaning.

  His smile spreads nice and easy. “We are. Always have been. I’m lucky that way, I suppose. And they’re also supportive of their gay son, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I’m happy that his family is chill and open. “Excellent. Love that. I talk and text with my mom a ton. She’s in Hawaii, living her best life on the Big Island. She’s pretty cool about everything too.”

  “Does that mean your dad’s not?” he asks cautiously, like we’re treading on uneven ground.

  My dad.

  I bristle at the mere mention of the man who made it his mission to make me feel as low as he possibly could.

  Never about being bi though.

  Always about being an artist.

  “He doesn’t care who I like. He’s never given two cents about that, and he’s said as much. Flies his pride flag from his truck with abandon. He’s a dick for other reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  Tension mounts in me as I rattle them off. “Let’s see. My dad can be summed up in a few gems he shared with me when I was a teenager: ‘You’ll never make anything of yourself as a musician. Poetry never got anyone anywhere. And if you insist on studying music in college, you’re on your own, and I won’t pay a damn dime for school.’”

  “Ouch. The man doesn’t mince words.”

  I grit my teeth as the memory reverberates, hard and still brutal. But I’ve learned to let it go, thanks to therapy. Thanks to talking it out. And thanks to following my dreams. “He does not. And he can’t seem to stop. When Zane joined me on a tour a couple years ago doing lighting, my father called me up to tell me what a horrible influence my musical lifestyle would be on my brother. And that I better not sway him off the ‘proper electrician path,’” I say, sketching air quotes.

  Jackson shakes his head, as if in disbelief. “So it’s art and music he hates?”

  “Yep. Said he doesn’t believe they have any value. ‘It’s not how a man earns a living,’” I say, imitating him again. “He said that one night when we were at a Mexican restaurant. He was scooping guacamole with a chip, and he got so worked up with his lecture about how art is useless that he spilled guac on his shirt. Now whenever he rants about art and his sons, Zane and I say he’s having a guacamole sitch.”

  Jackson smiles warmly. “It’s good that you two can at least joke. But what does he want for you and Zane?”

  “Nothing from me now. I’m a lost cause.” I wave a hand dismissively. “But Zane is younger, in his twenties. Mostly, Dad wants Zane to join his construction company so he has someone to run the family business when he retires, something he wants to do any day now. So, the pressure is on Zane. I feel for him, especially since his work in set design and theatrical lighting is catch-as-catch-can. I offered him a regular gig, but he said he wants to make it on his own and not on my coattails.”

  “Gotta respect that.”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Plus, the last time he worked with me, he kind of fell in love with Angelique.”

  Jackson jerks back. “Your opening act a few years ago?”

  “Damn. You remember my opening act from back then?”

  He shoots me a duh look. “I researched you before I took the job. And you were impressed when I knew your story chapter and verse.”

  “I’m still impressed.” I grin. “And yeah, it was a whole thing. A tabloid thing. He fell head over heels, and she fell for him, but then she ditched him. The breakup was rough.” Though that’s not the full truth. It was hard on Zane, but the tension between the two of them was hell on me, and that tour brought me some of my most mediocre reviews. I shudder thinking of them. “And my dad sure let me have it about that too. Like it was my fault Zane fell for her.” I heave a long sigh.

  “It sucks that he gives you a hard time about something you love, something that brings millions of people joy. To sing like you do, play like you do—it’s a gift, and it’s a damn good thing you share it.”