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Maybe it makes me a dork, or a pathetic fangirl. But, whatever. As much of an asshole—albeit a gorgeous asshole—that Jackson is, and as much as we’ve been warring and nipping at each other’s heals like dogs since I arrived…
I really am ahugeVelvet Guillotine fan. I mean that band, and this man’s voice, have been the soundtrack to most of my life. And now, hate him or not, I’m about to watch and listen to the king dickhead himselfplay.
I bite back my own giddy, eager grin as he sits on the couch.
“Do you—”
“Stop talking.”
I swallow, nodding as I sit back in the chair, my eyes glued to him in the firelight.
“And try to keep your drool in your mouth.”
My brow narrows.
“Youarrogantfucking—”
But then he cuts me off. Not with words, or a look, or even crude gesture. What shuts me up and leaves me spellbound is that Jackson starts toplay. And it’s…everything.
His eyes close, hunched over the acoustic on the edge of the couch. Firelight and shadows dance over his face, his muscled forearms, and his veined fingers as they slowly dance over the strings.
I’m confused by what I’m hearing for one single second. But then it hits me with a stunned realization that he’s playing a slow, stripped, acoustic version ofWreck Me Gently, Guillotine’s first radio hit.
That original version is loud, and thrashing, and drips pure rock ’n roll excess. But the reason that song became the hit it was, and why the band who played it went on to the stratosphere instead of being catchy one-hit-wonders is because there isso muchunder that gleaming, screaming, rock veneer.
Underneath, the lyrics aregorgeous, and haunting, and painfully real. And I’ve always thought that’s what people always really dug into when that song first dropped. It was the words—Jackson’s words—about the fear of the chase, and then the even greater fear of what you do once you catch what you’ve been chasing.
In a weird, eerily prophetic way, that first song set the tone for Velvet Guillotine’s entire career arc.
And suddenly, Jackson starts to sing, and the whole world stops moving.
Yeah, ten years away from screaming in arena tours, and ten years of drinking and skulking away have changed his voice.
But fuck me if it isn’tbetter. It’s literally evenbetterthan it was before. It’s older and roughened. It’s even more soaked in honey, smoke, and whiskey. The weary timbre of it sends chills down my spine and—shamefully—brings a heat to every single hidden place in my body.
And then, like they always do, the song ends. His eyes are still closed, the firelight still flickering over him like magic. The last notes of the acoustic hang long and slow in the still air of the room, until they fade too.
It’s not until he opens his eyes and turns to me that I realize how very much under a spell I am. How much I’m staring in amazement at him. How my eyes are glassed over, and my mouth is hanging open.
“Watch that drool, sweetheart.”
My burns, snapping me out of the reverie. I quickly collect myself, blushing hotly as I take a strong drink from my glass.
“When it crushes down like that…the world, regrets, whatever,” he mutters quietly. He shrugs. “That’s the only way I can get out from under it.”
“That was…” My head shakes. “That was incredible.”
He lifts a shoulder, nodding quietly.
“And I know the feeling,” I shrug. “I…when I learned to play guitar, it was helpful when I’d get lost in some of the bullshit around my life. My dad leaving, my mom being…” I frown. “Well, my mom in general. All her boyfriends…”
Jackson lifts a brow. And suddenly, he’s standing, walking over to me, and holding out the guitar with one hand.
My eyes bulge.
“Uh, what?”
“Play.”
