Ace of Spades (9 page)

         
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy you class, you worthless piece of
trash,” Richard growled, inching closer to him.

         
“Boys, boys,” Melody shouted, squeezing her curvy, little body between them. “That’s
enough.
From
both
of you.”

         
“Sorry, Mel,” Jackson muttered, fairly certain his pants were on fire thanks to
the lie.

         
Richard straightened, resuming his forgotten dignity. “Yes, well.”

         
If that was all the apology Mel ever got out of him, the bastard better never
screw up.

         
“Jack, they need you in position,” Kip called from behind Richard.

         
“Duty calls,” Jackson said, turning to collect his guitar. Body checking
Richard, he shouldered his way past the pair,
then
tossed over his shoulder. “Mel, I’ll see you after the show. We need to talk –
alone.”

         
Without so much as a backward glance, Jackson followed Kip. “Nice to meet you
too, Dickhead,” he added as he walked away.

A

         
What had she expected? That they’d shake hands and be friends?
Well, yeah.
Was
that too much to ask?

         
But no, the two men had immediately locked horns like bulls vying for a mate,
engaging in a petty pissing contest with her as the prize.
Men.
She was not a prize and this was not a contest.

         
Melody stood beside Richard, bristling with her arms crossed, as they waited
for the benefit concert to start. Sure, she was irritated at Jackson for poking
Richard like a bear with a stick. But she was pissed at Richard for not taking
the higher road. He could’ve been the bigger man. Jackson was her oldest friend
and now her boss too. The least he could’ve done was played nice.

         
Not that she was taking sides. But Melody found it hard to be mad at Jackson
when she was so proud of him. He’d done it. He’d conquered his addiction. And
he looked so much better than when she had seen him a few days earlier. Though
still not the perfect image of health, he’d definitely improved. He’d made it
through the worst of it. And he’d done it for her.

         
The thought turned her insides to mush. No, she couldn’t be mad at Jackson.
Even if he had been a bit antagonistic toward Richard.
That
was just his personality. Richard would get used to it after a while.

         
She glanced sideways at the man in question. He looked about as comfortable as
a pig in a slaughterhouse. Melody laid her hand on the sleeve of his suit
jacket. “You can go home if you want.”

         
Richard arched one brow at her. “And leave you alone in this hell hole. No
thanks. I’ll stay.”

         
Melody rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine. You’ve got to be to the office early
tomorrow. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

         
“Are you sure? I don’t want to go home thinking you’re okay with it, then wind
up paying for it later.”

         
“You’re fine. Go,” Melody insisted. Truth be told, she’d enjoy the concert much
more without him standing there like a pillar of disapproval the whole time.
How did she end up with someone so uptight?

         
“Great,” Richard agreed without further argument, looking as though he’d dodged
a bullet. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll see you at home.”

         
“Bye.”

         
Mel felt guilty for the relief she felt as she watched him leave, maneuvering
through the crowd as though he thought Jackson’s fans might sully his designer suit
if he so much as brushed up against one of them.

         
Melody turned back to the empty stage, watching the flames of a burning spade
dance on the screen-like curtain as upbeat rock music entertained the waiting
crowd. It had been a long time since she’d been to a concert. And she’d never
been to one of Jackson’s – well, not since he went to prison anyway. She was
excited to see him perform.

         
The lights dimmed to black, leaving the burning spade as the only source of
light.

         
“Ladies and gentleman, on behalf of San Diego Children’s Hospital and Ace
Records, thank you for supporting the ‘Ready, Set, Learn’ program. One hundred
percent of proceeds from tonight’s concert will directly benefit children with
learning disabilities throughout San Diego County. Here to thank you for your
generosity, please welcome to the stage, Black Jack and The Ace of Spades!”

         
The crowd roared in approval and Tommy struck up the drums, beating out the
rhythm to the opening song. It turned out he was a much better percussionist
than he was a conversationalist. In fact, he was downright brilliant. The stage
lights danced as the screen with the burning spade rose to reveal the band on
the stage. Melody’s heart skipped a beat when her eyes found Jackson, standing
center stage with his electric guitar.

         
Their first song filled the stadium, shaking the room with a driving rhythm and
addictive tune Melody had heard played over and over on the radio. It was even
better live. Jackson’s voice was richer and fuller in real life, so sexy.
Melody had forgotten how much she loved to hear him sing.

         
The whole band played well, but Jackson stole the show. He was so alive up on
that stage, so natural with an instrument in his hand. He was born to make
music and it poured straight from his soul. And the crowd ate it up, begging
for more.

         
Seemingly oblivious to their obsession with him, Jackson crooned his lyrics,
his voice so smooth and seductive. And every woman in the stadium wanted him.
Including Melody.

         
The sight of him up there – rock legend, sex symbol, bad boy rocker – made her
hunger for things she’d never imagined. It filled her with dark fantasies of
sweat and hot sex. It also filled her with guilt. She had no right to want him.

         
He wasn’t really what she wanted, wasn’t what she needed. She had a happy,
comfortable life. She had a boyfriend.

         
But watching him up on that stage was like eyeing a wickedly delicious dessert
after a highly unsatisfying salad. She knew it was bad for her, knew she
shouldn’t even think about it, but she was dying for a taste all the same.

         
By the end of the concert, Melody was so hot and bothered, so hungry for a
little dessert on a salad diet, she knew she’d have to go home and binge on
leafy greens. Richard would complain about being woken up for sex, but a girl
had needs. And hers did
not
include man-whore rock stars.

         
The crowd roared as the music crashed through the dynamic final bars of the
last song. Melody needed to get out of there.
Drawing her
phone out of her purse, she quickly texted Jackson.

         
Hey, J. Heading home for the night. Text me if you need me. Concert was
amazing.

         
She pressed send, tucked her phone back into her purse, and looked up to find
Lenny towering over her.

         
“Hey, Lenny,” she half-shouted over the noise of the crowd.
“I just messaged Jackson, letting him know I’m calling it a night. Can you keep
him out of trouble for me?”

         
Lenny grinned. “No go, Little Red. The boss wants to see you before you go.”

         
Shit.
The last thing she needed was to see Jackson now.
Not that she didn’t trust herself.
But there was no sense
baking brownies when she was on a diet. And in
major
need of some
chocolate.

         
With a sigh, Melody nodded and followed Lenny through the crowd. Lenny escorted
her backstage, through the back halls of the venue, and out to Jackson’s tour
bus. He gave her a wry half-smile before opening the bus door for her.

         
“Good luck, Little Red. The boss is in a mood tonight.”

         
Melody tipped her head to the side and gave him a knowing smile, demonstrating
a confidence she didn’t feel. “I can handle him.”

         
A sly grin split his craggy, freckled face. “I’m sure you can.”

         
Melody shook her head and ducked through the door, stepping into the luxurious
interior of Jackson’s tour bus. Bus wasn’t the right word, more like lavish
apartment on wheels. “J?”

         
“In here, Mel,” he called, his husky voice coming from somewhere in the back.

Melody
followed the sound, shuffling through the clutter and mess. Note to self, hire
a housekeeper for Jackson’s bus. The man was a creative genius, but a total
slob. Long red and black leather bench seats lined the walls on both sides,
littered with clothing and miscellaneous trash. Melody reached the pocket door
that sectioned off the back of the bus from the living room-like area and
rapped lightly.

“Come
in.”

Melody
slid the door aside and froze in the doorway. Jackson sat, perched on the edge
of a rumpled bed, his tatted chest beautifully bare as he strummed his acoustic
guitar. The tune was moody and ominous, much like his dark countenance. Gone
was
the flashy rock star and his dazzling stage presence.
Not a boyish smile or dimple in sight.

“What’s
up, J?”

Jackson
bored a hole in the floor with his gaze as he continued to strike the strings
of his guitar, the chords building in intensity and emotion. “I met Richard.”
More angry
strumming.

“Yeah, I
know. I was there, remember?” Mel asked, eyeing him with wary interest. What
was his deal? Sure, Richard had been a bit of an ass, but not enough to put
Jackson in this kind of mood.

“I don’t
like him,” he said flatly, not missing a beat as he continued to strum and
glare at the ground as though it had shit in his cheerios.

Melody
narrowed her eyes at him. “And why is that?”

True,
Richard had definitely had much more likable moments, but Jackson hadn’t given
him much to work with. It was almost as though he’d been itching for a fight
and had been determined to pick one. It was just as much his fault.

Jackson’s
shoulders rose in his typical, infuriating shrug, yet he still refused to look
up at her as he punished his guitar strings for whatever ate at him. “I’ve told
you before. He isn’t good enough for you.”

That
made Mel see
red. Where did he get off? Jackson had decided
before he even met Richard that the poor guy didn’t measure up to whatever
insane, imaginary yard stick Jackson held him to. Then, he’d finally met
Richard, albeit for all of a few minutes, and yet he, the stoner-man-whore,
didn’t approve of her successful attorney boyfriend.

Grinding
her teeth she glared at him through narrowed eyes, silently willing him to look
up to see the anger flashing in her eyes, the fire of her indignation over his
rash judgment.

“How
could you possibly know that, Jackson? You don’t know Richard and you sure as
hell don’t know me anymore,” she snarled.

Jackson
stopped playing and looked up, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. “I know
you, Mel,” he whispered, his voice soft yet rough.

“No,
Jackson, you don’t. All my young life, you told me how wonderful I was, how no
one else was good enough for me. Then, you pushed me away. You threw me and our
friendship away like a used condom. Now you want to tell me who to love?”

Shrugging
out of his guitar strap, Jackson dropped the instrument on the bed. He rose to
his feet, moving toward her with the sleek movements of a predator on the hunt.
His gray, threadbare sweatpants hung scandalously low on his hips, displaying
the top of an elaborate tattoo inked across the juncture of his
obliques
. He came to a stop when he stood a fraction of an
inch away from her, the Japanese symbol and Latin script adorning his
pecs
at her eye level. He was so overwhelmingly male,
towering over her, all smooth tatted skin.
Every inch the
gorgeous rock god, bad boy.

Jackson
dipped his dark head down, resting his forehead against hers. Melody knew she
should step back, put some much needed space between them. But she couldn’t.
His nearness felt so natural. His touch felt so right. He was a natural
disaster, sweeping through to destroy her fragile life and she was frozen in
place, mesmerized by the storm.

“Me,” he
whispered, his breath tickling her skin as he spoke. “Love me,” he pled.

His
mouth covered hers, his soft lips emphasizing the passion of his plea. Melody
didn’t know when, why, or how she ended up kissing him back, all she knew was
she did. Somehow, her fingers were tangled in the dark hair at his nape.
Somehow, her lips moved hungrily against his, opening to welcome the invasion
of his tongue. Somehow, he pulled her under the addictive spell that was
Jackson
Blackner
.

Jackson
kissed with the same skill with which he played his music. With skilled
perfection, as though he practiced every day for hours on end. Each stroke of
his tongue, each change in the pressure of his lips, was done to stoke the
fires of her desire, to leave her aching for more. He was an artist and she his
medium. Her mouth and body molded like soft clay beneath his touch.