Then I’m in Jayme’s bedroom. It feels like a dream come true, or at least the start of a particularly hot fantasy. But after our earlier adventure, I might need a little persuading before I’m ready for a full round two. I chuckle to myself, knowing that simply seeing Jayme feel pleasure would have me rock hard and raring to go in seconds.

  Her bed is neatly made with layers of fluffiness—a comforter, folded blanket at the foot, and a throw, plus a few decorative pillows. It looks like a cozy nest where she can curl up. And honestly, I could lie on top of all that stuff and fall asleep in seconds at this point. It’s been a long day and an energy-filled night.

  But she keeps leading me further into her sanctuary, into a huge main bathroom that is clearly intended just for her. The space is bright, with white tile and wood cabinets that match the ones I saw in the kitchen. The large soaking tub looks inviting, but instead, Jayme turns on the shower.

  I follow her lead and strip down, laying my clothes neatly over the edge of the tub since I’ll have to put them back on in the morning to get home. Jayme tosses hers into a bag with a dry-cleaning chain’s logo on it.

  She hangs two fluffy towels up by the shower and then steps inside. I pause, watching the water slide over her skin, droplets running from her breasts, down her belly, to the cleft of her pussy.

  “Come on.” She welcomes me in with a wave of her hand and an inviting smile.

  The warm water sluices over my skin too, relaxing tension throughout my muscles that I didn’t know was there. She hands me a bottle of shampoo, and unlike before when we were trying to make a flight, we do have time now. Sleep is the only time restraint we have and not nearly a strong enough enticement for me to miss this opportunity to worship Jayme.

  I pour out a healthy amount of the shampoo and then work it into my hands. “Lean back,” I tell her. She looks uncertain but does as I say. I lather the shampoo into suds through her strands, massaging her scalp with strong fingers. “Feel good?”

  “Mmhmm,” she moans. Her eyes are closed, but her lips are falling open as she relaxes into my touch.

  I help her rinse her hair, then add conditioner with the same attentive detail. While that soaks in, I turn my attention to her body. I find a bottle of body wash and a pouf and use it to wash every inch of her . . . twice. Only when she starts giggling at my work do I stop.

  “I don’t think my boobs have ever been this clean,” she teases. “Right arm, boobs, left arm, boobs, belly, boobs, leg, boobs.”

  Okay, so maybe I’m a little obsessed, but her breasts are right there in my face with proud little hard nipples begging to be touched. Or licked or sucked, but with the abundance of soap, I went for hands so that I don’t end up blowing soap bubbles later.

  “Just making sure they know they’re appreciated,” I tease with a serious face, looking her right in the chest. “I acknowledge you, I appreciate you, you are perfect just the way you are.”

  She laughs softly and steps away from me, letting the water wash away my hard work. I use the pouf to make quick work of washing myself, not paying half as much attention to myself because nothing is as attention-grabbing as Jayme’s bare breasts. And then when I’m rinsed, she grabs the towels, handing me one.

  I go to dry her off with it, but she laughs and pushes me away. “I got it. You do you so we can curl up naked in my bed.”

  That sounds like a fantastic idea, and I start quickly rubbing my skin to dry off. After a moment, she clarifies, “To sleep.”

  I throw a playful glare her way. “You play dirty.”

  “Sometimes,” she admits. “And another night, you may find out how dirty I can be.”

  It’s a little thrill to think about, but when we do finally curl up in her bed, her ass cradling my cock and my arms wrapped around her, exhaustion hits me hard and fast. She was right, we do need to sleep a little bit before the big day.

  I don’t want anything to interfere with things going perfectly, least of all a sleep-deprived brain that forgets something basic like my own name. Or worse. Instead, I drift off to sleep, where strange dreams of a sign declaring Welcome to Amerijuanica Land greets me instead of Americana Land, and the festival turns into a smoke-filled fiasco that ends up all over social media.

  Nope, definitely can’t have that happening. Luckily, even in my dream, Jayme comes in to save the day, riding in on a hot air balloon with a huge fan that blows away all the smoke as she yells into a megaphone. “Put that shit out and eat a cookie instead!”

  I laugh in my dream, but maybe in my sleep too.

  CHAPTER 19

  JAYME

  Saturday arrives full of sunshine and blue skies, promising an amazing backdrop for the festival. I arrive at Americana Land bright and early, ready to work. My outfit for the day definitely isn’t my normal dress of professional business wear, but today, I’m going to need to run here there and everywhere, so jeans, sneakers, and a special staff edition neon-yellow shirt are warranted.

  As the driver drops me off at the park gate, he looks at the huge balloon arches being assembled out front and asks, “What’s going on here today?” He reads the big banner stating, Americana Land Freedom Fest and harrumphs. “Attention whoring.”

  I don’t let it worry me. He’s not the target demographic by at least four decades. Hell, if he’s irritated by it, that’s a sign we’re on the right path.

  If it’s too loud, you’re too old, man!

  I laugh to myself at the saying, hoping it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass later when I’m shoving ear plugs in my ears to block the loud music. At the front gate, I add James, the ride operator’s, name to the VIP list as I told him I would and head inside.

  Every step of the way, I’m evaluating the visuals for social media opportunities. What will make a good video or photo? How will guests interact with the environment? Can anything be improved?

  Inside, I see Spencer and Kyleigh talking with Carson and head that way. They’re wearing matching neon shirts too, an effort to make staff stand out from the crowd.

  “Good morning,” I greet them. “How’s everything going?”

  Three pairs of eyes meet mine. Carson and Spencer seem pretty calm, but Kyleigh looks on the verge of spontaneously combusting. She doesn’t say anything, but the way her body is vibrating is answer enough. Actually, on second glance, Spencer could probably use a cup of coffee to perk up. She’s eerily serene, especially in contrast to Kyleigh.

  “Good,” Spencer says, not giving anything away. She continues talking to Carson, and I pick up on where they are in their checklist. “Artists are all being picked up at the hotel now. They’ll be shuttled over for sound check and then taken back. I have someone on hand at the hotel to cater to them just in case anyone pulls a Mariah.” She gives Kyleigh a subtle head tilt and then mouths, “Jazmyn.”

  I’m not surprised, but I hope our headliner can keep it together long enough to perform the way we need her to. “If you have any issues come up, I can deal with her,” I offer, and Spencer nods gratefully.

  “What? Who?” Kyleigh says, looking from me to Spencer in confusion.

  Spencer pats Kyleigh’s hands in a motherly move. “It’s fine. Let’s continue down the list.”

  We get to work, confirming that bubble machines, fog machines, laser light shows, and glitter cannons are prepared. We check in with the engineers who are prepping for the sound check and promise to follow up with Spencer about any concerns. The vendors have everything they need to sell food, drinks, and merchandise. Freddy Freebird costumed employees are stationed around the park, each in Freedom Fest special gear for the day. There’s special signage on displays throughout the area, all with #AmericanaLand and #FreedomFest hashtags to encourage people to tag their selfies and group photos.

  By the end of Spencer and Kyleigh’s run-through, it’s clear that Freedom Fest is going to be a planned-to-the-smallest-detail success. It has to be.

  “Wow, I’m truly impressed and grateful for all your hard work,” Carson tells Spencer and Kyleigh sincerely. “I can tell how much ownership you put into making this event happen.”

  Kyleigh beams like a puppy getting its first head pats as a reward for sitting on command. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Spencer is a harder sell. She knows what’s up and what this festival means. “I appreciate the opportunity to show what I can do and how much I can handle. I look forward to this becoming a regular thing, whether with a repeat of this festival or other events. Also, if you can finagle it, Kyleigh here needs to be brought on full-time. She’s a great asset."

  Damn. I think I love Spencer. She’s got no qualms with saying exactly what she thinks and what she wants, and she backs it up with solid work. Plus, she’s willing to mentor others, a sign that she’s got a good heart. Carson would do well to keep her on his team, right at his side. Good leaders surround themselves with other good people, and together, they all grow. Plus, I don’t think Spencer would put up with any shit from Carson. He needs that too.

  Carson grins at her. "Heard. Noted." To Kyleigh, he says, “Done.”

  Kyleigh squeals, jumping up and down exuberantly. One sideways glance from Spencer, though, and she reigns herself in. Her voice still high-pitched, she says, “Thank you, Mr. Steen. Thank you, Spencer.”

  “Call me Carson,” he corrects her. “Everyone on the team calls me Carson.”

  Her squeak of agreement is kind of adorable, actually, and I can understand how thrilled she is to get the job of her dreams with a mentor she respects.

  “Okay, where do you need us?” I ask Spencer, letting her leadership shine.

  She points over to the right, off toward some of the rides. “Check in with Xavier and Padma. They’re going to be with the photographer, getting opening shots and spamming our pages to build excitement. Should be . . .” She looks at her watch, noting that it’s almost ten, and says, “In the Thirteen Colonies area.”

  “On it.”

  Spencer hands me a small map and a radio. “Keep it in your pocket so you can find your way around without stopping at the park directories.” To Carson, she asks, “Where’s your sister? I have something I need to talk to her about.”

  “Toni?” he echoes, as if he has another sister she’d be talking about.

  I laugh and excuse myself, sending Carson a sexy wink as I head off on my mission.

  Holy Fucking Firecrackers and Hot Dogs on the Fourth of July!

  To say that the festival is a hit would be an understatement of the century. We’re only on the third musical act to hit the stage and the entire park is full of visitors. People are packed in the Great Garden area, most of them wearing themed outfits of some sort, from classic red, white, and blue regalia to outrageous party costumes.

  I think I just saw a glitter unicorn skip by. A glitter-corn? Or a uni-glit?

  I shake my head, forgetting the conundrum when I see a guy dressed as Abe Lincoln, complete with a neon painted beard and top hat with streamers running down his back. He’s sipping from a Freddy Freebird kid’s cup, an actual bald eagle figure with a straw coming out of its white head.

  Closer to the stage, I can see an opening in the crowd, and a woman is twirling some sort of LED-lit balls on strings. More than yo-yos, they make wild shapes in the air as she flicks and spins them, and the crowd surrounding her cheers her every move, entranced with her skill.

  Through the mass, I see another neon shirt and duck left and right to get a better look. Realizing it’s Carson, I bob and weave my way his direction.

  “Hey!” I yell, bumping his arm.

  He looks down, a polite smile on his face, but when he sees me, it becomes something deeper. “Hey yourself.”

  Or at least I think he does, but I’m mostly reading his lips. Honestly, I can barely hear a damn thing.

  I pull him lower to speak into his ear, still needing to shout. “This is amazing!”

  He nods his head enthusiastically.

  The group on stage, Alien Babies, judging by the abundance of Area 51 signs in the audience, reaches a loud crescendo and then goes silent. I panic, thinking the sound went out, but when I look to the stage, I see the singer with her arms held up high, hands shaking so hard that her whole body is vibrating as if lightning is washing through her. Then in one powerful jolt, she swings her arms down, her headbang sending her lime green braids flying. Right in time with the move, green glitter shoots out over the crowd, and everyone tilts their faces up into the shower as if the sparkly confetti is a gift from God herself. The crowd goes wild, headbanging and bumping into each other.

  The glitter rains down over us, and though I try to keep my mouth closed, I swallow some and then ungracefully spit a bit out. Someone grabs my hand and quickly twirls me, but before I can react or Carson can intervene, they let go to spin the next person as they work through the crowd.

  It’s chaos. It’s wild.

  It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.

  Everyone is smiling and happy, dancing and enjoying themselves.

  Carson pulls me back to his side, and I look up at him.

  “You’re covered!” I exclaim with a bit of a laugh, but I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t swallow even more of the tiny sparkles. I once drank too much dyed beer at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration and peed green for two days. I wonder what the pass-through speed of glitter is. Two days? Five? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out firsthand, experimental style.

  His brow furrows, not understanding over the loud music. Instead of repeating myself, I reach up and brush my thumb over his cheekbone where a bunch of glitter has stuck to his skin. He lets me brush off as much as I can, neither of us caring who’s around or who might be watching.

  But that’s a dangerous risk to take when the whole point of this festival is that it’s beaming out to social media. I can see phones held in the air as people film themselves and the stage or livestream the festival. It’s exactly what Carson and Americana Land need, but not what we need personally.

  “We should see if Spencer needs anything,” I suggest. Carson points at his ear and shakes his head. Rolling my eyes, I grab his hand and start pulling him out of the throng of people.

  Once we get further away from the stage’s speakers, I hear someone yelling my name and look, expecting to see another neon shirted staff member. But what I see doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s a woman in a holographic jumpsuit. The knotted turban on her head and the silvery geometric shapes painted on her face match the super-short outfit. She’s a walking, yelling, smiling disco ball.

  She gets closer, her smile growing. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” she shouts.

  That voice . . . I know her. I grab her arm and spin her around. That ass . . . I know that ass. Back facing me, I get closer, trying to see her eyes through the dotted designs covering her skin. I know those dark eyes that are laughing at me right now.

  “Oh, my God! What are you doing here?” I hiss, looking around to see if anyone else has figured out what I just have.

  Taya is here. At Freedom Fest.

  I realize there’s a guy beside her in an equally outrageous outfit and recognize her bodyguard, Captain. I don’t think he’s actually a captain, of either a boat or in the military, but that’s what he goes by, and he’s not the sort of person you question. Especially about his origin story. That’s how movie villains start their monologue and end up going off the deep end.

  Oddly enough, they don’t particularly stand out in the crowd. Taya is probably safer here than walking around the streets of LA where people would expect to see her. And as outrageous as her outfit is, it’s not nearly as wild as most of the other ones here.

  I rush her for a hug, and she squeezes me tightly but yells, “Don’t fuck up my makeup, bitch.”

  Her smile makes me laugh. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed your shindig.” She sees Carson standing next to me and lifts a questioning silver-painted brow my way. She’s asking so many questions with that one arched curve of skin and hair.

  Does he know about me? Does he know about you? Are you fucking him yet? What does he mean to you?

  It’s friendship shorthand, and I answer with my eyes, knowing she’ll understand.

  No. No. Yes. Everything.

  Taya offers her hand to Carson, and he shakes it politely. But she pulls him in, using a hand on his shoulder to force him lower so she can speak directly into his ear.

  She doesn’t yell, but I’m close enough that I can hear.

  “I’m the bestie. Don’t fuck her over or I’ll kill you, and that’s not an exaggeration.”

  Carson grins as though she’s kidding but then sobers when he sees her hard expression. I love her, she’s an amazing friend, but I don’t need her threatening people over me.

  “Tay—” I say, but stop myself short. Carson doesn’t know who she is, nor do the people dancing around completely unaware that one of the most famous artists in music is mere feet from them. I look at Carson with wide eyes, hoping he didn’t catch that. It’s not my place to share.

  And yes, I did overshare his information with his dad, but that was for therapeutic reasons. Sharing Taya’s identity and whereabouts is a safety risk, a completely different thing.

  But there’s no surprise in Carson’s eyes, and Taya notices as well. “You know who I am?”

  He dips his chin once. “You have a beautiful home,” he shouts.

  He’s known all along and never said anything, keeping the secret to himself and not even letting me know that he knew whose house I’d taken him to.

  He passed a test I’m not sure I even consciously realized I was giving him.

  We never find Spencer or Kyleigh, but the four of us make our way through the crowd in a chain—Carson holding my hand, me holding Taya’s, and her holding Captain’s. I look around to make sure everyone is enjoying themselves, partying responsibly, and sharing hashtags with their photos as we go.