JACKS

"Morning!" I say, opening the door for Dré and inviting him in.

"Morning," he says, handing me a coffee and setting down some paperwork on the counter. "Why you grinning like you woke up in bed with Harry and Meghan?"

I laugh and shake my head, sitting at the counter beside him.

"Skye broke up with her boyfriend," I say.

His brows raise and his mouth falls open.

"You're shitting me," he says. "How? What happened?"

"Well I swung by her house to drop off the magazine and sh-"

"Hold up." He holds out his palm and narrows his eyes. "What happened to not using the magazine as an excuse to see Skye right away? How long did you wait?"

I look to the side.

"Point is when she came home she said she had just broken up with him."

"When she came home? Man, did you show up at her place before she even made it home? I'm second-hand embarrassed for you right now."

"I gave it time, okay? She just happened to be out because she was busy breaking up with him."

"Well, desperate moves aside, I'm happy for you," he says.

"Anyway, she came over for dinner last night. I told her that I like her and she said she likes me."

I can't fight the grin tugging at my lips as I say it.

"I expected you to really lay on the moves, but I didn't realize you two were still in middle school," he teases.

"Hey, I'm taking it slow. She just broke up with her fiancé and we were both drunk."

"I'm just teasing. Have you talked to her today?"

"Not since she left."

"She stayed the night?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

"Not like that. She was too drunk to drive home so I offered her the guest room. I told you, I didn't want to rush things."

"Fair enough. Hopefully when you get there, she won't be expecting the 10-foot dick," he teases.

"What?" I ask with a laugh.

"I'm joking, man. About the Jackson Ford fanfiction? Didn't you tell me they all made you out to have a King-Kong dong?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." I chuckle and nod. "She wouldn't think any of that was real, right? I mean like... she knows that's fiction."

"Wow," he says with a laugh. "I just watched all the color drain from your face. You really worried she's expecting you to live up to fanfiction? Relax. I've gotten a few glimpses of what you're packing; she'll be fine."

He's right, by most standards I'm doing great in that department—but I've never had to compete with my fictional self and his massive pant python either.

At least... I don't think I have.

"So what's the plan from here?" he asks. "Sweep her off her feet? Send her a dozen-dozen roses? Helicopter tour?"

"Is that how you usually win over your dates?"

"It's what I'd do if I were rich and famous. I mean, why be a teen idol if you can't even use it to bag your girl?"

"If I took her out to dinner the paparazzi would swarm us. She'd immediately be a target for them. I don't even want her on their radar."

"Then what are you gonna do?"

That's a good question.

SKYE

I stare at my ceiling as lights from passing cars flicker against it. I've been tossing and turning for hours, but I still can't sleep.

I've never had a particularly great relationship with sleep. When I was little, I couldn't fall asleep unless someone else was in the room with me. My therapist says it's common for people with CPTSD—the C standing for "Complex"—to struggle with sleep issues because sleep is a vulnerable state and we don't like to be vulnerable. But really—who likes to be vulnerable?

Since Complex PTSD comes from long-term trauma instead of just one event, you train your body and brain to be ready to defend you at any time. So in theory I'm perpetually ready for a surprise tiger attack, but it comes at the cost of my energy and sanity.

My symptoms tend to get worse when I'm worn down or over-stressed. Right now, it's hard to say why I'm staring into nothingness, unable to close my eyes.

It might be all the time spent on tour time—getting up at noon and staying up till four in the morning. Or it could be the added stress of my recent breakup that I still haven't told my parents about. Or something about the news that my biological parents basically left me behind at a fast food restaurant. Or it may be related to the fact that, a couple of days ago, I told a famous pop star I have a crush on him.

It's probably the tour schedule.

I grab my phone off the nightstand to check the time.

1:00 am. Great.

I open my texts and my finger hovers over Jacks's name.

What am I even doing?

I'm delirious from staring at my ceiling for hours, and this is starting to feel like a good idea. I type and press send before I have a chance to second guess myself.

Me: You awake?

Almost immediately, I see those three dots indicating he's typing his reply.

Jacks: Is this a 1am booty call, Buttercup? 😉

I smack my palm against my forehead, realizing how the text must've sounded.

This is so embarrassing.

It wasn't supposed to be a booty call, I just wanted someone to talk to.

Then again, maybe that would be fun.

I shake my head rapidly.

Me: You wish 😝

Me: I can't sleep

Jacks: Can I come see you?

I blink and stare at the screen in disbelief.

This is definitely a bad idea, but I seem to be a fan of bad ideas lately.

Me: Can we go somewhere?

I anxiously watch the dots blink as he types.

Jacks: Pick you up in 15

I had just enough time to get dressed and sweep my fresh-out-of-bed hair into a messy bun. I threw on an oversized gray sweater and black leggings, but didn't have time for makeup. I look a bit like an Instagram influencer before the filters. It isn't exactly the look I'd pick for meeting a cute guy in the middle of the night, but it will have to do.

A dark gray sedan pulls up to my building and the window rolls down.

"Get in, Buttercup!" Jacks shouts.

I expected something more flashy for a celebrity, but his car looks more suited to a school teacher.

I walk over and hop in the passenger side.

"Where are we going?" I ask as I buckle my seatbelt.

"It's a surprise," he says, driving away.

A Franz Ferdinand song is playing at a low volume on his stereo.

"So this is your car, huh? I expected something flashy."

"It's a rental. I have monthly rentals for when I need to drive myself places but don't want to be seen. They're inconspicuous. You get a lot less attention in a Nissan than you do in a Ferrari, trust me."

"Good point."

"So you couldn't sleep?" he asks. "Still on that late-night concert schedule, eh?"

"I guess so. I've always been a bit of a night owl but I was starting to go stir crazy."

"Well you can always text me if you want to. I'm always up late."

"Waiting for those late-night booty calls to roll in?" I giggle.

"Technically I think it was a text." He shoots me a teasing smile.

"Oh shut up." I playfully push his shoulder. "I told you it wasn't a booty call."

"We'll see." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and laughs.

I watch as we start to move further west, following signs toward Santa Monica.

"Are you taking me to your secret murder lair?"

He laughs and shakes his head but doesn't give anything away.

"On the one hand," I continue, "I'm not really into the idea of being murdered. On the other hand, how often do you get to see an honest-to-goodness murder lair? I mean, honestly, it's kind of a rare opportunity. You know what's something they never explain in movies? Who pays the murder lair's electric bill? It's always in the middle of some abandoned building with crumbling walls, and they always have those low flickering lights. Somebody has to pay for that. And don't tell me that's not raising suspicions when someone comes in trying to pay the electric for the old condemned asylum."

"You're amazing," he says, a smile in his voice.

"Amazing as in I'm an amazing victim because I care about the logistics of your murder lair? Because I hate to break it to you, pal, but I'm a kicker. You ain't seen nothing yet."

He laughs and shakes his head.

"You say things that no one else says, you know that?" he says. "There are only so many words out there; most every sentence that can be said has been said before. But I'm convinced that every time you speak, your lips have been the only ones to speak those words."

I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

Butterflies gnaw at my stomach in a way that borders on uncomfortable. My insides just flutter every time I'm with him. It's intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

This isn't like it was with Greg—easy, uncomplicated. No, this is the edge-of-your-seat thrill of diving into something undeniably beautiful, knowing that it will eventually destroy you.

A familiar beat starts to play on the radio and Jacks groans.

It's his own song: Little Heartbreaker.

"Not this crap," he jokes, reaching to change the station.

"Oh come on!" I say, slapping his hand away. "I happen to like this song."

"You do?" His voice seems almost shocked, as if he's never heard someone say they like his music before.

I start to sing along with the music for a moment before it hits me that I'm singing a song alongside the person who wrote it. I quickly snap my mouth shut and pray that I haven't embarrassed myself. I turn to see Jacks staring at me, smiling slightly.

The blare of a horn snaps our attention back to the road as a car whips around him.

There are hardly any cars on the freeway at this time of night, but just enough that you should still have your eyes on the road.

"Sorry if I butchered it," I say with an uncomfortable giggle.

"You couldn't if you tried."

He reaches for the gear shift and his knuckles brush against my knee. I'm strikingly aware of every moment we touch, and this is no different.

I'm in way over my head and I know it.

We pull into a parking lot somewhere near the beach and he puts the car in park and shuts off the engine.

"Let's go," he says with a smile, opening his door and hopping out of the car.

I follow him down a street that is lit only by a few lamp posts and the cool, dim moonlight. It's surprisingly warm for the middle of the night, but there's a cool wind that bites my skin. We come up to the beach and he reaches out for my hand. I place my palm in his and he interlaces his fingers with mine.

"Are we here to work out?" I ask, pointing to the exercise equipment lining the path to the beach. "Because I'm already pretty ripped, I might bust out of this sweater."

I give my best arm flex and he chuckles, leading me past the path into the sand. It's quite dark out, with nothing but a sliver of moon in the sky. As we walk further from the lit path, it gets darker still, and I can barely see a foot in front of me.

After my eyes take a moment to adjust, I see the glow of the ocean ahead of us. The waves are bright blue and unusually clear in the otherwise pitch-black night.

"Wait," I say. "What... why does that look like that?"

Jacks sits down in the sand and I sit beside him.

"It's bioluminescent algae," he says. "It comes along with the red tide at different times each year."

"Wow," I say, watching new spots glow as the waves churn.

"You like it?"

"Yeah." I lean my head on his shoulder. "This is much better than a murder lair."

I can taste the salty ocean air on my tongue as I listen to the rhythmic static of the crashing waves. Jacks's arm wraps around my shoulder and I exhale a heavy breath I feel like I've been holding onto my whole life.

"This is weird," I say.

"How so?"

"I'm sitting here on the beach... with the guy from the posters in my childhood bedroom. It's weird."

"You had posters of me in your bedroom?" He turns to look at me with a smirk and a raised brow.

"Technically I had posters of N3XT, but I'm not sitting here with the rest of the band. Besides, you were Nina's anyway."

"I was what?" He turns his body toward me, letting his hand drop to my hip.

Stupid. Big. Fat. Mouth.

"It's a stupid thing from when we were kids. Nevermind. Anywa-"

"Oh no," he says, shaking his head. "You can't just drop something like that and expect me to let it go. Who's Nina?"

"Uggghh, fine. Nina was my friend growing up. During a sleepover, we decided to..." I pause, trying to think of a non-stalkerish way of explaining this. There is none.

"Kidnap us?" he asks, laughing.

"No!" I playfully elbow him in the side. "We decided to pick out imaginary boyfriends, okay?"

This is so embarrassing.

If I just walk out into the ocean right now, I could let the tide swallow me whole and never have to look Jacks in the eye again.

"So I was Nina's imaginary boyfriend?" He narrows his eyes. "Who was yours?"

"Brian," I mumble.

He bursts into laughter and folds over himself.

"Last time I ever tell you any secrets, mister!" I push his shoulder and he falls sideways into the sand. He straightens himself and shoots me a soul-melting smile that shows of his dimples.

Damn him.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you, I swear. It's just not at all what I thought you were going to say. You know Brian is gay, right?"

"You're just jealous," I tease.

"Maybe I am, Buttercup." He sweeps a lock of hair out of my face and looks me in the eye.

Oh my god. What's happening?

He leans in toward my ear and softly sings.

♫ "Everything you do to me; you're the root of my jealousy." ♫

I recognize the lyric from an old N3XT song. I'm pretty sure he's teasing me, but I'd be lying if I said it's not incredibly hot.

"You're hilarious," I say, pursing my lips into a fake pout. "It's not my fault I don't have a filter, okay? I was born like this. Completely out of my control. Send your complaints to the manufacturer."

"I don't have any complaints—not a one."

I blink at him, unable to find a single word to respond with. My eyes trace the soft edges of his features in the moonlight.

"Having no filter—I think it's a good thing," he says. "You're direct. You just say what you're thinking. I spend so much time around people who want to placate me. They only say what they think I want to hear. Maybe we would all be a little better with no filter."

"Really?"

"Yeah. God, I filter myself so much trying to be this perfect version of myself for the world. I envy you just saying what comes to your mind."

"Okay then, go ahead," I say. "Lay some truth on me, no filter."

"No filter, huh?" His eyes lock onto mine, his stare almost pinning me in place with its intensity. He leans in and I swallow hard. "I want to kiss you so bad right now."

My heart starts hammering in my chest.

He may have a point about this no filter stuff being a good thing.

"Can I?" he asks, placing a hand softly on my cheek.

I nod.

His lips connect with mine and I swear the world goes silent and the ocean stills. His fingers lace through my hair as he pulls me in deeper, his mouth vibrating against mine as a low, soft moan passes his lips.

"Fuck," he mumbles as he breaks away, resting his forehead on mine. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

His kiss has awakened something in me I didn't even know was there; but now that I do, all I want is more. I reposition myself so that I'm straddling him. His eyes look as wide as saucers in the moonlight.

"Then why'd you stop?" I ask, leaning in for another kiss.

My mouth reaches his and he nearly growls, pulling me down so that I'm on top of him and his back hits the sand. He slips his tongue between my lips and the feeling is electric. His hands roam across my back until one lands on my hip and the other on my waist.

It's so different from our kiss on the music video set. It's like he's letting go of who he's supposed to be and instead is just being—pouring himself into me with every touch, every movement. It's the kind of kiss that I know will ruin me for anyone else ever again.

There's no world where Jackson Ford falls for a normal girl like me. Maybe fools around with, sure, but he's not about to put my picture in a locket. And maybe that's okay. Maybe whatever we're doing, these moments are worth having... even if it will ultimately go down in flames. Maybe it's a good kind of burn.

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