by Piper Lawson
His gaze lands on me.
“It’s Annie,” I pant. “Something’s wrong.”
His body goes stiff as if he’s been shot. Then he grabs the phone from my hand and stalks toward the dressing rooms.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him, but I can’t not.
“Annie. What is it, baby?” I hear him say.
My chest tightens. I realize I’ve followed him right into his dressing room, but I can’t leave. I’m rooted to the spot.
He listens, and I’m desperate to know what’s happening, but I can’t hear the voice on the other end.
After a moment, though, Jax’s shoulders slump. “Division? Yeah, that sucks. Okay. It’s late. I’ll call you in the morning.” I start to duck out, but he crooks a finger, telling me to stay. “We’ll do all the math you want.”
When Jax hangs up, he crosses to the old-fashioned wooden dressing table at the far end and reaches for a towel to wipe his face. He braces his hands on the wood, still breathing heavily from the show as he meets my gaze in the mirror. “She lives for social studies, but math is the devil. Ten-year-olds’ drama.”
“Ten years old?” I’m still struggling to catch up with the wry twist in his mouth.
“Annie’s my niece.”
I drop onto the couch, the fake leather smooth on my bare shoulders as my eyes fall closed.
“Who’d you think she was?” There’s curiosity in his tone, and an odd edge.
“I don’t know. You have pictures of a woman in your bus. Your arm’s around her.”
He hesitates barely a second. “My little sister, Grace.”
I don’t normally get wrapped up in other people’s lives, but I couldn’t have predicted the cascade of emotions that follows. It’s like dominos, shock chasing understanding chasing anticipation chasing hope, until one crashes into the next and leaves me a bundle of humming nerves.
Part of me’s filled with dread and the rest wants to jump for joy.
The fact that you’re alone with Jax Jamieson in his dressing room and he’s single changes nothing.
He’s not a sex symbol. He’s an artist, a business person, a…
My rambling thought train comes to a screeching halt when I blink my eyes open. A sensory spectacle on the other side of the room accosts me in slow motion.
Jax Jamieson is stripping his shirt over his head. His back muscles ripple, and my eyes trace the tattoos over his arm, across his shoulder, to where they end midway down his back.
This is so much more than the poster. It’s surround sound Dolby hotness, and as he turns, showing off equally sexy chest, all I can think about is what it would be like to trace those lines with—
“You thought I had a girlfriend. And that bothered you.” He totally caught me staring.
My lips move, but nothing comes out. “Yes,” I manage finally. “Because you go to that room to party. Not for any other reason.”
He stares me down like he can see every dirty thought in my twisted head. “You don’t need to save my soul, Hales.” The nickname sends prickles through me. “But I like that you want to.”
I have a long moment to soak in the effect of his gorgeous body from under my half-lowered lashes before he reaches for a T-shirt. Then drags a black hoodie over that.
I bet you wouldn’t take a bath after he touched you. The random thought invades my brain.
He crosses to the couch, and when his gaze drops to my bare arms, any trace of a smirk vanishes. “You’re shivering.”
“It’s fine.”
“Where’s your jacket.”
I swallow. “I lost it.”
And holy shit, it must be my birthday because he’s reaching for the hem of his shirt again.
Scratch that. His sweatshirt.
He strips it over his head in a way that tugs his T-shirt up a few tantalizing inches before dropping it down again.
He holds it out to me.
“You’re loaning me your sweatshirt?”
“Keep it.”
“Oh. I couldn’t.”
“You have a problem with accepting help, don’t you?”
My brows pull together. “No! I mean… only if I haven’t earned it. I don’t like people feeling sorry for me.”
Just when I’m about to reach for it, he seems to reconsider. Before I can protest, he grabs a sharpie off a table across the room and scrawls something on the fabric. I lift my hands fast enough to catch the shirt he tosses at my head. “There. Now it’s personalized. You can’t give it back.”
My fingers dig into the soft fabric.
“Thank you.” I want to tell him I love it. Instead, I hold the sweater up by the shoulders. “I can’t see what you wrote.”
“Just as well.” I’m totally imagining the teasing note in his voice as he drops onto the couch next to me.
The shirt smells like laundry soap and him, and until he smirks, I don’t realize I’m smelling it.
Shit.
I don’t know why I’m still here, or why he is, but I’m afraid to change a thing.
“Why do people feel sorry for you.”
I blow out a breath. “My mom died last year. In a car accident. She’d come home from a work trip to take me to a concert for my birthday. On the way back, it was raining. She had to hit her brakes to stop from running into a car in front of her. The eighteen wheeler behind her couldn’t stop in time.”
His nostrils flare. “Your dad?”
I shake my head. “He’s never been in my life. I don’t know who he is.”
The way his mouth twists at the corner is dark. “Hope it was a good concert.”
Death makes most people squirm. His response should make me angry, or indignant.
It’s satisfying somehow because I know he’s not laughing at my mom or the terrible thing that happened to her.
He’s laughing at life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that if you can’t laugh at life’s coincidences—the good things and the bad things and the horrible ones—you might as well be dead.
“It was,” I say finally.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
I’m used to seeing shock on people’s faces when they hear what happened, but Jax recovers quickly.
“Your mom died coming back from my concert and now you’re on my tour. That’s twisted.” I half expect him to walk out but he just studies me. “Is this some kind of retribution thing?”
“No. Not even a little.” I shift forward, bringing our faces close enough I can see the dark flecks in his gold eyes.
“See, I put on your music—Inside actually—and played it on repeat for weeks. My friend Serena says she doesn’t know how I was so strong. The thing is I wasn’t. You were. You were there for me, and you didn’t even know it.”
I take a breath because now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
“That’s what made me start building this program. It’s also my biggest problem. Computers can analyze pitch and frequency and levels and what’s pleasing to the human ear. Machine learning algorithms can predict hits on the basis of what’s come before. But what none of it can do is tell you what kind of person creates those songs. What they’re thinking, feeling, when they do.
“I want to know that,” I say, breathless. “I want to know you.”
Silence stretches between us. Except it’s not really. I can hear sounds of metal on metal in the hallway. Of footsteps.
Neither of us looks toward the door.
Jax looks like he’s turning something over in his mind. He smells like sandalwood and sweat. Like he came back from battle.
“I wrote ‘Inside’ when I thought I was going to die. When I was out of control. I don’t play it, I don’t even let anyone cover it, because it takes me back there.”
I swallow the sudden thickness in my throat. “I heard about your parents. I never heard you had a sister.”
“I don’t like paparazzi harassing what family I have left. I left Dallas to make a
My chest squeezes, hard. I see why he carries so much around with him, but there’s something wrong about what he’s saying.
“How do you know it wouldn’t have happened if you were there?”
His jaw tightens. “I just do. It’s why I count down every show in this damned tour until I can go home and make up for all of it.”
Jax looks as if he’s going to say something, but his intake of breath has me looking down.
“Jax, your fingers are bleeding.” I frown, resisting the urge to grab his hands to take a better look. “I used to bite my nails.”
He scoffs. “From playing guitar.” But he holds my gaze for a beat. Two. “How’d you stop?”
“I glued peanuts on them.”
His brows shoot up into his hairline. “Holy shit, really?”
“No, not really.”
Laughter starts somewhere deep inside him, warm and full and incredulous.
And like that, the whole world is me and him, the dimple in his cheek I’ve somehow never noticed, the light in his eyes as our bodies rock.
“Well?” Jax asks finally, his gaze dropping to the sweatshirt clutched in my hands. “You gonna put it on or just cuddle?”
The fabric bunches in my fingers. I don’t take my gaze from his as I shift on the couch, tugging his sweatshirt over my head.
I didn’t expect it to be warm and comforting, but more than that…
God it smells like him. It’s all fabric softener and man, and if fame had a scent I know it would be this.
I shove the hood back, resisting the temptation to fix my hair.
“There,” he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as his amber eyes darken.
“What?”
“It’s like I’m touching you everywhere.”
Words like “boss” and “distance” and “older” fall away because they can’t compete with that.
When the biggest rock star on the planet says “I’m touching you everywhere” because you put on his hoodie, it’s the biggest tease in the world.
But Jax looks completely relaxed when he shoves at the hair falling over his forehead, sliding a tattooed arm along the back of the couch. Curiosity edges into his expression. “So the whole hating it when strangers touch you thing… that’s only strangers, right? It doesn’t stop you from doing other stuff.”
“What kind of other stuff.” My ears are ringing.
He lifts a brow. “Like sex.”
I stare him down but the only thing in his expression is concern. It’s as if he appointed himself my personal therapist without telling me, or asking permission.
“Right,” I manage. “Yeah, I have sex. But I don’t like to drag it out. You know. It’s better if it’s fast.”
Dark brows draw together on his face as if maybe I’m speaking another language. “Shit,” he says finally. “That’s a damned crime, Hales, because the best sex?” Jax’s eyes glint as he stretches out his legs, dragging my gaze down his hard, perfect body without permission. “The best sex is slow.”
I think I stop breathing when he says it.
He looks as if he’s not aware of the effect he’s having. I think he likes having someone to talk to who’s not interested in him.
If only that were true, I think as I sneak a look at him from under my lashes.
The first time I met him, I was beyond intimidated.
When he’s like this, he doesn’t seem older or different or scary.
Jax Jamieson is timeless.
He’s perfect.
The door opens, and Mace sticks his head in. “Jax, Nina’s asking if you can do an appearance tomorrow at…”
He trails off as he sees us. “Am I interrupting?”
“No.” He hesitates, and for a second, I want him to say yes. Yes, you’re interrupting. Please go away and come back in an hour.
Or never.
“Let’s get out of here.” Jax shifts out from under me and follows his bandmate out the door.
I stare after him.
Until this moment, I wasn’t sure why I’m on this tour.
Jax Jamieson has saved me more times than I can count.
Maybe it’s my turn to save him.
9
Haley
Haley: I figured out what you wrote on the sweatshirt.
* * *
Jax: ??
* * *
Haley: Good luck wearing this when it’s ninety degrees.
* * *
Jax: AC broke on ur bus?
* * *
Haley: No, but Lita likes to sit on top of it when she’s managing her fantasy baseball team.
* * *
Haley: She says a cool ass makes for a cooler head and she makes better trades this way.
* * *
Jax: tell hr she can’t have altuve
* * *
Haley: She gave you the finger. Who’s Altuve?
* * *
Jax: ask her typing 2 hrd
* * *
Haley: You could always get a real phone.
* * *
Jax: blsphemy
* * *
Haley: Seriously. Save those million-dollar fingers for something worthwhile.
* * *
Haley: Like playing guitar. Or building LEGO.
* * *
Jax: no point
* * *
Jax: mace is 2 proud 2 let me hlp ;)
Haley,
* * *
Good to hear you’re enjoying the summer. You’re only young once.
* * *
I’ve uploaded some comments in the attached files. The program needs a lot of work before we can submit it to Spark, but I know you can get it there.
* * *
Talk soon,
* * *
Chris
By Kansas City, we’re falling into a routine.
Five shows in and not only can I hold a flip phone, I can work the soundboard. Not quite by myself because Jerry’s still the master. But I’m getting better. I like the combination of digital and analog.
I sneak out a bit of time to work on my program. Mostly at night after the shows because it helps me transition to sleeping. I’ve built in ideas Jax has shared with me.
Though I’m not about to admit it because his ego would blow up.
Some nights I play with Jerry. His mind’s not great, but he’s amazing at chess, and I’ve learned he’s the most patient teacher.
I’ve also learned Jax looks after him. He drops by the sound booth before every gig, usually with the excuse to check on something. But they end up talking and joking for a few minutes, sometimes half an hour. That much time might not seem like a lot, but I’m realizing that when you’re headlining a production like this one? It’s a lifetime.
This morning should feel like every other morning. The surroundings are the same. But since Toronto, I’ve been edgy.
I spend a lot of time thinking about Jax.
We all do because it’s his tour.
I’m guessing the others don’t sniff his hoodie and wear it to bed.
Miss placing a coffee order because they’re picturing his body. Or that smirk.
It’s reasonable that I’m a little distracted since finding out that the voice in the phone I’d assumed was his girlfriend is actually in third grade.
Sue me for being happy. I’m never touching Jax and he’s never touching me.
Still.
I feel better about the times my gaze lingers on him, knowing there’s not someone out there who’s earned the right.
Serena calls me right after lunch.
“How’re you getting off?”
“Huh?”
“I said how are you getting on?”
“Oh.” We’ve stopped at a diner where I wolfed down a sandwich. Now, I’m sneaking a few moments of privacy behind the bus. “It’s weird being around people 24/7.”
“I thought you had your own room?”
“I do. But even then…” I struggle to explain it. “It’s like you can’t forget the whole crew is sleeping a few steps away.”
“Creepy.” I laugh. “The tuition bill arrived.”
The smile fades. “When’s it due?”
“August.”
I curse. “I haven’t gotten a paycheck yet. That competition better work out. I have another two weeks before the deadline. If we win…”
“You’re rolling in cash.”
“At least I’m rolling in enough to pay for next semester.”
“Please tell me you’re not spending every waking moment working on that computer program.”
“Carter sent me a bunch of tweaks to work on. Basically, I need different versions of the same track, so I’m going through these databases to find—”
“Whoa.” I stop. “When are you going to lift your head from Carter’s ass and look around?”
“I am looking around. And then I realize I’m on a rock tour, and it’s insane, and I put my head down again.”
I’ve listened to everyone I can to learn the business. Production crew members setting up. Nina rattling off orders like a Smurfette drill sergeant. To Jax, whether he’s fine-tuning an arrangement with the band or giving feedback to the lighting director or reviewing the promotion schedule with Nina.
Something I’ve learned in between the ‘actual’ work is that not only does Jax look after Jerry, he looks after everyone.
He buys every meal for every crew member when we’re traveling. Ensures there’s a massage therapist, physiotherapist, or doctor on site the moment anyone groans, cracks, or coughs.
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