Vengeful Bounty (26 page)

I pulled back so I could see his face. “Details!”

He laughed, deep and charming. “Go home and get some rest, first. You've been up all night with your brother. Call me when you wake up.”

I nodded, hope filling my breast with new purpose. “You got it.”

30

By the weekend, I had all my plans in motion for my new Catch 25. But before I left on that mission, I had one more thing to do.

Earlier in the week, I'd called Jackson on my way home from the hospital to let him know I'd made it back from New Orleans in one piece. I'd kept the conversation short.

“I'll see you at the concert,” I'd said.

“Looking forward to it,” he'd said.

And that was that.

So here I was, standing front row in a massive stadium, surrounded by ecstatic fans, cheering their hearts out. Soon I realized the reason why.

To say the show was spectacular would've been an understatement. There were laser lights, pyrotechnics, a stage that transformed, confetti, fog, and music. And what music! Granted, some of his songs were geared toward nightclubs, but many of them were simply good songs. They were pop; that's for sure, but the melodies were catchy and unique, and Jackson had such energy on the stage that it was impossible not to get sucked in and possessed by his amazing spirit.

He changed outfits about every ten minutes, from the simple to the flamboyant. At one point he wore boots with foot-high soles, a glittery cape, and glow-in-the-dark pants. He was an acrobat, doing back flips, climbing on the gymnasium-like set, and singing his heart out. He belted out the tunes with fervor, sometimes reaching a lovely alto pitch that had my skin prickled with goose bumps.

I couldn't tell if he'd seen me yet or not, though I was in the front. He tried to give himself to all the members of the crowd. He'd even pulled young individual girls on stage with him and sang lovingly into their eyes. They'd be writing about it in their journals tonight, for sure.

But it was when he sat at a golden piano, with the lights low, and a cool blue spotlight cast on him, that he turned on his seat and looked me dead in the eye.

It was only a few seconds, but it charged me right down to my toes. He knew better than to bring attention to me or try to pull me on the stage, so that look was enough.

He announced he was about to play his new single. And that he hoped everyone liked it. And there it was again, the same song he'd been playing in his music room, the one he'd performed on TV. The song was called “Just Friends.” One more look into my eyes, and he began to sing:

Mesmerized, I watched and listened, wondering, deeply wondering if it meant what I thought it did.

Then the chorus:

I found it hard to breathe, experiencing this angelic display of magic wrapping around my soul. The song. It was about me.

The concert was soon over, after two encores. The audience started filing out, but I stood in front of the stage, stupefied. The phone in my pocket vibrated (I had gotten into a horrible habit of carrying it lately). It was Jackson. My heart leaped. I had to calm down and remind myself that he was my friend, not an untouchable godlike celebrity, though it was hard to do after that performance.

I swallowed a dry lump in my throat. My pulse was going wild. I walked slowly at first then picked up the pace as I fished in my purse for my car keys, trying not to grin like an idiot.

* * *

His mother was gone. He'd texted me the gate code and left a note on the door that simply read, “Come on through. I'll meet you out back.” I quickly breezed through the house and emerged into the backyard. Walking down the pretty stone path to the fountain, I noticed it was under-lit by pretty golden lighting. White candles were lit around the rim. A single long-stemmed red rose waited for me, minus the thorns, and I picked it up, smelling its sweet scent. I sat down and waited.

He at last came through the back door, now wearing casual clothes: a pair of khakis and a white T-shirt. His hair shone freshly wet from a shower. Little droplets of water dripped onto his shoulders.

“Well?” he asked. “What'd you think?”

I looked at the fountain and down at the rose, which I cradled in my hands. “It's beautiful; I love the design.”

“Not the fountain setup,” he said, laughing.

He offered his hand, and I took it. He pulled me up, and we began to dance to the music in our heads. He smelled fresh from the shower.

“I'm glad you like this,” he said, “but I was talking about the concert.”

“That song—”

He put a finger over my lips, the touch sending sparks of electricity through my limbs. “Now, you know you don't have to ask that.”

“So it
was
about me.”

He nodded, and our dance slowed to a simple sway.

“I have a question, though,” he said.

“What?” My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt my body melting up against him, opening up and reviving from its much too-long death.

“Date me?” he asked, turning his head to the side in that playful way I adored.

“You think that's a good idea?”

“I do.”

I smiled mischievously. “I don't know.” I brought up a hand and caressed the side of his smooth, clean face, a move I'd wanted to do for a long time. “Convince me.”

“Okay,” he purred.

He leaned down, his lips finding mine. I sank into him, one of his hands in my hair, the other grabbing onto my back, pulling me into his warm, safe embrace. His body was firm, inviting, as the kiss shot me up into a starry dream.

I was officially convinced.