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I hate…hatehow much my body responds to him uttering those two words. I hate that my core clenches. That my thighs squeeze together. That my pulse jumps with lust.
I quickly shake that crap away.
“While I do appreciate how your mind went there,” Jackson adds, “It’s not a pussy reference. It’s an album from The Band.”
I know this music trivia about “The Band” who were once Bob Dylan’s backing band. Of course, I do. But from him?Yeah, my mind went somewhere…filthier when he said, “big pink”.
“They—”
“They bought a big pink house in Woodstock, New York, to record an album,” I interrupt. “I’m familiar with it.”
“So, you thinking about pussy was just a distraction?”
I flush.
“I wasnotthinking about pussy.”
“You should try it sometime.”
My face burns.
“Sorry to ruin your male fantasy, but I’m comfortably straight.”
He grins.
“I meant that you shouldthinkabout pussy—such as your own—more often.”
I simmer as I look away, sipping my whiskey.
“You know what? Thisisfun,” Jackson grunts. “My turn.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Why, because you’re the one conducting this interview on me?”
He smiles at me thinly, his eyes narrowing.
“But you’re just casually asking questions, right? As afan, right?”
I swallow.
“You’re right, this isn’t an interview.”
“So, we’re just two people having drinks together then, it would seem.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“Then it would seem that’s it’s fairly my turn to pry intoyourpersonal life.”
He sits back, sipping slowly.
“Tell me, Melody…would you say being a pain in the ass and your generally prickly personality is your own little perpetual fuck-you to your father for abandoning you?”
My eyes narrow coldly as my lips thin. Jackson smiles.
“Now, was that prying?”
“Yes.”
