Page 19 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
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.9StoneOne 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.”
