“Yeah,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You coming to the Bulldog games?”
“Yes!” they all say in unison as they jump up and down, like the little girls they truly are.
Though, technically, I’m not that much older than them, I feel much older. And wiser.
Wait a minute. Not so much wise. I am the idiot, after all, who’s in love with a boy who only thinks of me as a friend.
Once they’re gone, as in they’ve left the restaurant, and we have our food in front of us, Jackson sends me a wry smile.
“That was wild,” he says, seeming in a daze.
“Happens a lot to you when you go out?” I take a bite of my taco and holy crap, it’s delicious.
“Not really. That was kind of a first,” he admits right before he takes a big bite of his own taco.
“They were true fangirls. They even knew you were on the football team,” I poi
nt out.
“Yeah. I mean, that’s public knowledge. I don’t hide it,” he says, his gaze thoughtful as he stares off into the distance, his taco forgotten. “But I have to admit, it was kind of—overwhelming. Having them recognize me and freak out. Talking to me as if they know me. They don’t. Not at all.”
I frown. “You didn’t like their attention?”
“Sometimes, I don’t know how I feel about it,” he admits. “I’ve played a lot of shows at Strummers, so I get why I have fans here. I’ve built up a following, I guess. It’s just really weird.”
“I thought this was what you wanted,” I tell him, settling my taco onto my plate as I study him intently. He seems a little shaken by the encounter, which is not like Jackson.
He embraces this kind of thing usually.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. Grabs his half-eaten taco and shoves the rest of it into his mouth.
“Maybe not?” I arch a brow.
“Not sure,” he says once he’s swallowed. “Honestly? I don’t know what I want. And do I really need to make a decision right now?”
“Is that why you haven’t signed a record deal?”
Jackson nods. “I’m not ready to give up control yet. Not ready to have it all rest on my shoulders. I just want to have fun while I still can, you know?”
“Being a rock star won’t be fun?” I tease.
“After a while it won’t be. It’ll become a job, and I don’t want to kill my spirit, my love for music.” His expression turns distant, a faint smile curling his lips. “I could totally write a song about this.”
“You seem able to write a song about pretty much anything,” I say softly.
His gaze meets mine, his eyes a deep, dark blue. “You have no idea.”
Thirteen
Jackson
Having those girls freak out over me kind of freaked me out. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming. They fluttered around me like hyped-up bees. Buzzing and jumping, talking in overly high-pitched voices in the middle of a restaurant, where I least expected it. I certainly didn’t think they’d recognize me, yet they totally did. Chatting me up like we’re old friends. They knew a lot of things about me, and it felt strange.
I know I have fans. I’ve performed enough to know that they’re out there. They come to my shows and scream my name. Say obscene things. Flash their tits at me while in the audience. Some of them even come backstage and proposition me after a performance, and we hook up.
There were a lot of hook ups over the summer. Quick, frenzied sex in a dirty bathroom. A dimly lit hallway. A cramped dressing room. On the tour bus. A lot of blow jobs. More than the actual sex. I was drunk. High. Whatever. Alcohol, weed, pills.
Coke was readily available while I was on tour, but I only did that a couple of times since it made me feel too out of control. And downright exhilarated, like I couldn’t jump off the roller coaster ride no matter how hard I tried. That’s a feeling I know I’d want again and again, which scared me. I laid off the shit after the second time I tried it.