"Impressive," he said before taking the glass from me with a smile, "but it’s alright, I’ll make you a mojito. You don’t need to finish it."

I took it back from him with a smile of my own. "It actually tastes pretty good. I can see why you like it." I had to admit that he was being kind of sweet, and I thought maybe I wasn’t giving him enough credit. Underneath the bad boy veneer, he had a nice side to him. "Hey Jax," I said, "thanks for letting me sleep in your bed last night. I really haven’t slept that well since I got on the bus."

"I’m just glad you were able to get some rest. Maybe you won’t be so cranky next time I hit on you."

I nudged my shoulder into his, and it felt like nudging a brick wall. "Yeah, right. A few nice gestures go a long way, but the final verdict’s still out on you."

"What I’m hearing is you’re keeping an open mind," he said, raising his brows at me.

"And what I’m hearing is you’re actually listening to me, for once."

"Wouldn’t keep your hopes up on that one," he said with a wink.

I was really starting to like this side of him: playful, but without the games. I took another sip of my drink, but this time it didn’t burn as much. "You know, you were sure out cold this morning."

"Oh, yeah . . ." he replied. His smile faded, and his gaze slowly drifted off into the distance.

"I thought you said you never slept."

He took a sip of his Godfather without looking at me. "I do. Just not a lot."

I studied him as an unspoken tension hung in the air. I wasn’t sure if I’d said something offensive. I guess he really didn’t get a lot of sleep, and I briefly wondered if it wasn’t because of something more than insomnia.

Jax pulled out a joint from his t-shirt’s front pocket. "You mind? I know you said you wanted some fresh air."

A minute ago I might’ve minded, but I saw it as an opportunity to ease the lingering tension that had arisen between us. "No, by all means, go right ahead."

He slipped the joint between his lips, sparked it up with a silver zippo lighter, and puffed on it a few times, causing the burning tip to sizzle and smoke. Pinching the joint between two fingers, he held it out to me. "Want to hit it?"

I half-smiled and shook my head lightly. "No thanks. I’ve smoked a few times before, but it doesn’t do much for me. Wouldn’t want you to waste it."

"If you say so," he said. He put the joint up to his lips and inhaled as he looked me up and down.

Judging from the way his bandmates went through weed like bags of M&Ms, I’d always assumed he did too, but this was the first time I actually saw him doing it.

"Do you always come up here to smoke?" I asked, idly swirling my drink.

He nodded slightly and exhaled toward the horizon. "Most of the time. The band likes smoking together and playing around. It’s a social thing for them."

From what I’ve seen of my friends, pot-smoking always happened in groups. I studied his expression. "Isn’t it always a social thing?"

"It can be," he said then puffed again and shrugged. "It can also just help you clear your mind. Block out some thoughts, you know?"

"What kind of thoughts?"

"Bullshit ones," he said casually.

Jax was being unusually open with me. I wanted to know more about him, but I was afraid of asking things that would make him uncomfortable. I smiled and nudged his arm in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Oh really? Before last night I would’ve thought you were bullshit central."

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah, okay, I deserved that."

I lifted my brow. I’d given him a playful opening to sling something back at me, but I was surprised when he didn’t seize the opportunity.

"So you agree?" I asked.

"What can I say?" he said coolly. "I like to have my fun, I can’t deny that. But don’t pretend that you don’t like it too."

I wondered if I was ready to admit that in spite of his games being stressful, they were also kind of fun. I could feel we’d grown closer over the past two days, but despite our increasing intimacy—the kiss, me sleeping in his bed—I wasn’t ready to tell him that a part of me enjoyed his games.

I took another sip of my Godfather, which tasted better with every gulp. "No, you’re right, I like having fun," I said as a general statement. "You know I can let loose. But that’s only on vacation or on the weekends. Most of the time I live a normal, professional life like everyone else. The real world has consequences, so unfortunately not everyone can live like a rock star."

He cocked his head. "You think I don’t live in the real world?"

"Well, you do, but your real world is different from mine."

"How so?"

I narrowed my brows, confused that he didn’t see the difference between being an accountant and being a rock star. "You’ve got countless adoring fans fawning over your every word. Some even come by your voice alone. You’ve got groupies. You can drink and smoke pot at work. Your whole life is one big rock concert."

After a few seconds, he raked his fingers back through his dark, windblown hair. "It wasn’t always this way you know."

"Oh?"

"I used to skip school, get into fights," he said before taking a long drag on the joint. "Surprising huh?"

"You getting into trouble at school? Never would’ve pictured that," I said jokingly.

He smiled and exhaled. "That’s when I picked up a guitar. Don’t know who came up with the idea first, but Sky and I decided to start a rock band. Back then we thought if we were going to be in a rock band, there’s certain things that we just had to do first. Like doing a lot of drugs, partying ‘til dawn, trashing hotel rooms, rocking out, and all that crazy stuff."

I’d partied hard in my day—especially back in college—but I was pretty sure none of it compared to any of the crazy stuff he’d done.

"I've always wondered what it would be like to be on stage with all the glitz, glamour, and groupies," I said as I motioned with my glass to the extravagance dripping from every inch of the bus. "Aren't you happy you’ve fulfilled your dreams?"

He shrugged. "Sure, all those things are nice perks, but that’s not why I play music."

I tilted my head, curious. "Is that so? Then why do you do it?"

He gave a wry grin. "Why not? It makes me feel good."

"Feel good?" I asked. I’d been half-expecting him to say something deep and philosophical, but what he said seemed fairly mundane.

He nodded. "Yeah. When you think about it, that’s really all that matters. Feeling good." He turned his gaze to me. "You know, to be able to forget about the shit from the past, stop worrying about the future and just feel good in the moment."

His words resonated in their simplicity. When I wasn’t working, I was always partying. The partying helped me forget about working—and the crappy parts of my past.

"Maybe you have a point," I replied.

"See, you and I aren't that different after all," he said with a smirk.