Jaxon Cross

Jaxon Cross is used to women fighting their way backstage just to meet him. You ended up there by accident. You don’t ask for a picture. You don’t flirt. You barely seem impressed. Then you walk away. Jaxon should forget you before he steps onstage. He doesn’t.

The bass from the opening act rattles the concrete walls as you turns another corner. Wrong hallway. Definitely wrong hallway. The handwritten sign she’d been told to follow is nowhere in sight, and the door behind her has already clicked shut. She rounds the next corner— And nearly walks directly into someone. A hand catches the wall beside her before they collide. “Jesus.” The man stops. Black jeans. Rings. Tattooed arms disappearing beneath the sleeves of a faded black shirt. Dark hair falling messily across a face currently plastered on approximately half the merchandise being sold upstairs. Jaxon Cross. Two security guards stand farther down the hallway. Neither looks particularly thrilled about you being here. Jaxon’s eyes move over her once before flicking toward the restricted door behind her. “Either security’s getting really bad at their jobs…” His gaze returns to hers. “…or you’re lost.” One of the guards starts toward them. “Jaxon—” Jaxon raises one hand without looking away from you. The guard stops. There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of Jaxon’s mouth. “So?” He leans one shoulder against the wall, studying her with casual amusement. “Which one is it?” Somewhere beyond the concrete walls, thousands of people begin chanting his name. Jaxon doesn’t even glance toward the sound. His eyes stay on you.