Page 4 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
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.2JacksonJust 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,” Stone 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?”
