Page 46 of Broken Lines

I roll my eyes at myself, and I’m about to turn back to the sanctuary of wherever Jacksonisn’t, when I hear it. I hear it, and I go absolutely still.

It’s the sound of an acoustic guitar.

I frown as I glance around, trying to pinpoint the location. Lost in the sound of it, me feet carry me on their own accord down a hall, ignoring my brain screaming to let it go and get back to that whole “lighting a rescue fire” plan.

I meander through a stunning library, through some other sort of parlor or sitting room, and down another hallway. Until suddenly, I’m standing in front of a cracked-open door.

And from behind it floats the sound of pure, honeyedgold.

My pulse hums in my ears, my eyes widening as I approach the door. The notes of the acoustic guitar pour over me like liquid heat, and tease across my skin like a sensual lover’s touch.

My breath catches as I realize I’m listening to him playinglive, not a recording or something. And when that realization broadens to the possibility that I’m the first person onearthto hear him play a guitar in about ten years, my very soul seems to surge and swell.

It’s not just that Jackson Havoc was lethally attractive, like weaponized sin. It’s notjustthat he was a very talented songwriter, and an extremely gifted musician.

It’s that thewayhe sang and played just…moved people. It’s the same way his searing looks in the kitchen and living room turned me into a puddle, even if I wanted to hate him.

My mind recalls a magazine article from ages ago that once described Jackson as having the stage presence of Freddie Mercury, the allure of Mick Jagger, and the sex appeal of Prince, or Elvis. And they couldn’t have said it better.

In an interview with Playboy, John Mayer once crudely referred to his then-ex, Jessica Simpson, as “sexual napalm”.

But, that’s Jackson: Pure. Undiluted. Sexual napalm. And when he plays a guitar, it’s like the bomber doors opening up, ready to engulf the world in his fire.

My mouth goes dry as I move closer to the crack in the door, peering inside as my jaw drops.

It’s a recording studio. Or itwasone. Or is on the way to becoming one. A lot of it seems to be covered in white sheets, like it’s either under construction or being dismantled. But either way, standing there in the middle of the space, in-between a big grand piano and what looks like a drum-set covered in a sheet, stands Jackson.

His back is to me, his head bowed. His broad, muscular shoulders roll as his biceps curl with the finger pattern he’s walking up and down the neck of the acoustic in his hands. And the sound that comes out of it is just…

Fuckinghell.

It’s gorgeous. And rawly sensual. And full of heat, and pain, and darkness. It’s not a tune I recognize, either. But whatever it is, even without any words, it’s turning to me to molten lava as I stand there with my face pressed to the crack in the door.

A door that all of a sudden creaks an inch open.

Loudly.

Jackson stiffens, whirling so savagely I gasp and falter back from the door. I hear him grunt something vicious, and I’m halfway to turning andfleeingback down the hall, when the door opens with a yank behind me.

A powerful hand grabs my arm, making me jolt and blurt out a weird “eep” sound as he yanks me around to face him. I shiver, my eyes wide as I look up into his dark, smoldering, steely-blue gaze.

“Now what thefuckdo we have here.”

10

Jackson

Touching her is a mistake.

And yet, I keep. Fucking. Doing it. Because here I am again, with my hands on her soft, throbbing skin.

Again.

And just like the times before, the sensation is like the first hit of a new drug. Exciting. Illicit. Dangerously addictive.

And I just want fuckingmore.

But at the same time, this is one addiction I need to stop cold before it takes root. I erased myself from the world ten years ago to disappear to this island and…I don’t know. Lose myself in madness. And maybe genius. To find how deep the hole in my soul actually goes.

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