I push it into the music, desperate to let it free, get it away from me.
Sweat trickles down my back. My throat burns as I sing about promises made, love that lasts to the grave, and the simple need to love and be loved.
I’m thinking too much, which is never a good thing. Emotion chokes me, clutching my throat and locking down tight. I’m going to be sick. My hand shakes. The next chord is weak, my voice slipping off-key.
I end the song with a garbled sound and face the silence, aware of Stella and Sam staring at me, expecting an explanation. Humiliation prickles along my back.
But then Stella claps. I’m so shocked by the happy sound that my chin jerks up.
She beams at me. “That was brilliant.”
She means it. I don’t know how she missed the utter shittery that was the end. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. Either way, the walls are pressing in on me. My iceberg is crumbling. I need out and away. I need to be alone. There’s a strange safety in solitude.
And maybe that’s why, once I’ve finished my business with Sam and arrange for the Strat to be delivered, I do my very damnedest to drive Stella as far away from me as I can by acting like the biggest douche bomb possible.
Chapter Eight
Stella
I think I have stars in my eyes. I don’t have a mirror, so I can’t confirm. But I feel them. I know I’m gaping at Jax. I can’t help it. I am starstruck. I have been from the moment he started to play.
“Play” is too weak a word for what he does. He touched his fingers to those guitar strings, opened his mouth, and the world changed. My world changed. Who I was, all my problems, fears, everything dropped away, and there was just sound, music, emotion. His emotion, bittersweet and beautiful and aching.
God, his voice. It isn’t showy or strained. It doesn’t rely on flash to get the message across. It is smooth, deep honey, the caress of tender fingers along the nape of my neck, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. Jax Blackwood sings like he’s telling you a secret that only you’re worthy of hearing.
When I’d asked him to pick a U2 song, I hadn’t a clue what he would choose. I’d thought maybe something fast and upbeat. Instead, he plays me a love song. His version of “All I Want Is You” is beautiful and painfully filled with desperate yearning. He sings and tears my world open. My heart is an exposed wound, and I have to blink rapidly not to cry.
But he doesn’t even see me. Eyes lowered, the thick fan of his lashes hiding his gaze from mine, he plays with fluid ease and sings about forever.
With each line, every chord, my fingers dig deeper into my thighs, my throat swells tighter.
I love him in that instant. Completely. Painfully. I know it’s an illusion, a testament to the power of his talent. And the moment he stops, I’ll be released from this spell. But it doesn’t make it any less intense.
He gets to the final refrain, his voice growing husky and crying for his love, his fingers flying over the strings, the music getting tighter, faster, more urgent. He’s coming undone. Sweat drips from his brow; the corner of his mouth quivers.
I move to reach for him, but then stop. He’d hate that.
The chords clamor, going off-key, his voice breaking. The final note dies awkwardly, both hanging in the air and somehow abruptly final.
He stands there, no longer Jax, but John, his chest heaving. His hand trembles as he runs his fingers through damp hair and glances wildly around as though seeking escape. I clap because I don’t know what else to do.
He accepts my praise with a tight nod, still not fully looking at me, and then hurries along his purchases with Sam. The guitar will be delivered later. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to touch it just now. He’s still a little shaky when we leave the shop and step out into the crisp air.
John pauses to pull his fake glasses from his pocket and put them on. Another run of his fingers through his hair to tidy it and he’s back to being the hot geek. He shoves his hands in his chino pockets and gives me a benign smile like the whole impromptu concert never happened. “And that was Sam’s Guitar Shop.”
I have no idea why he wants to avoid that incredible display of talent. If I could do what he does, I’d be a musical hussy, performing on every damn street corner at all hours of the day and night. But I play along. “I liked it. Sam too.” I’d forgotten to ask Sam about the sandwiches. I’ll go back on my own later.
“He’s a great guy. Worked with a lot musicians over the years.”
Though his tone remains causal, he’s gone pale around the edge of his mouth, but his stride is missing its usual fluid grace.
We walk a little way in silence. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not certain what’s wrong. Is he embarrassed? How can he be? He’s a rock star. It’s literally his job to perform. I’m usually much better at reading people and making them comfortable. For shit’s sake, I’m supposed to be a professional. But here I am unable to come up with a single word of meaningless chatter.
John nudges me with his arm. “Back to this Barry business.”
“Barry?” I frown. “Barry White? Barry Manilow?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Those are your first choices for Barry?”
“You think of anyone else when mentioning Barry and music in the same conversation?”
He shrugs. “I’d have gone with Barry Gibb or Barry Bonds.”
“I don’t know who those last two are.”
“A musician and a baseball player—and it hurts that you don’t know their names. But, no, I was not talking about any famous Barry. I meant your date. Barry. The wally who looked like he could be an actuary.”
“It’s Bradley, and he’s a forensic accountant.”
“Ha. I was close.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that when I introduce you as a bassist-playing choir singer one day.”
He nudges me again. “Salty Stella. And to think I walked through dirty water for you.”
My smile sneaks out, but I don’t say anything. I’m not that easy.
He grunts in clear annoyance. “Stop avoiding the question, Button.”
“Was there a question? I must have missed it in all the Barry excitement.”
“There was.”
“Really? All I heard was ‘Back to this Barry business.’”
I can feel him rolling his eyes, even though I keep mine on the street in front of us.
“Smartass,” he mutters before clearing his throat and talking to me in a crisp English accent that rivals Mr. Scott’s. “Ms. Grey, I have been meaning to inquire. What is the nature of your relationship with Bradley, the forensic accountant?”
I can’t help laughing. “You sound like a professor.”
His grin is a quick flash of teeth. “I was channeling my father, actually. Something I try to avoid when I can help it.” He tips his chin in my direction. “Well, then? Answer the question.”
“Yeah … No comment.”
John halts, his mouth dropping open in clear outrage. “You can’t say that!”
“Of course I can,” I toss over my shoulder. “It’s none of your business.”
He starts moving again, taking two long steps to reach me. “Come on. What gives, Stella? Bradley said you were worth every penny. And he isn’t the only old guy I’ve seen you with.”
It’s my turn to halt. “What? When? Are you following me?”
“See, that was three questions,” he says smugly. “And I bet you want them answered, don’t you?”
I step into his space and poke his chest. “Talk, you.”
John grabs my poking finger and deftly links his hand with mine, holding them close to his stomach. My knuckles brush against the hard wall of his abs, and heat dances up my inner thighs. Flushed, I yank away, but it doesn’t kill his smug smile. “Two days ago, Madison Square Park. You were eating at Shake Shack with some older, nervous dude, and you were doing most of the talking, I’ll add.”
He’d seen me with Todd? And I hadn’t noticed?
Uncomfo
rtable heat washes over my face. “Jesus. You were spying on me. What the hell, John?”
His eyes narrow. “Hey, I was sitting two tables over, minding my business and drinking a coffee shake. You’re kind of loud, you know.”
“And what the hell were you doing there at the same time I was? At the same time today too? Suspect.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” He waves a lazy hand. “I admit we have a freakish timing thing going on. And believe me, I’m disturbed too, but I’m not following you. I’ve better things to do.”
“Like eat alone?” As soon as I say it, I’m sorry.
John barely reacts, which is worse. He shuts down, going blank. “Yeah, eating alone,” he responds thickly but without heat. His meaning is perfectly clear; eating by himself ranks higher than doing anything with me.
Inwardly, I wince, but I’d been shitty to him too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did.” His tone is lighter, his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile. And I realize that John isn’t one to hold grudges. A lot of people claim that they let things go, but few do. Hell, I rarely do.
“Well, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” I clarify. “I eat alone too.”
“When?” he asks, peering at me with suspicion in his green eyes. “Because there seems to be a pattern here.”
“Two men do not make a pattern.”
John stares as if I’m full of it. Which I am.
“Maybe I like older men. So what?”
He snorts. “Older men who have money to pay.”
Shit nuggets. My thighs quiver with the urge to run away. I hold steady. “What are you implying?”
John looks up and down the street before leaning close. His voice is a warm rumble at my ear. “Are you an escort?”
He might as well have slapped me. I rear back with a gasp, feeling oddly exposed. Is this why he’s been talking to me? Some morbid curiosity about what my profession might be? Those stars in my eyes? Gone. Any semblance of happy thoughts I had in regard to my new neighbor? Up in flames of hellfire.
John’s brow knits as his gaze moves over my face. But he doesn’t appear repentant, just impatient.
“Did you just ask if I am a whore?” My voice echoes over the street, and a man walking his dog turns his head toward us.
John ignores everything but me. “Not a whore. An escort. They don’t sleep with all their clients. Just ones of their picking.”
Rage vibrates through my bones. “I … You … I …”
“You and me …” He waves a hand. “Spit it out, Stells.”
“Fuck you!” I blurt with heat. “Fuck you with a swizzle stick.”
John glares, his cheeks turning red. “You don’t have to be rude.”
“I’m rude?” I practically choke on my shock. “I’m rude? You’re accusing me of being a prostitute.” The worst of it? I feel ashamed. And I have no reason to be. None at all. I’m not an escort, and even if I were, that would be my business, not his. But that’s what his words have done to me just the same.
“You wouldn’t be the first one. It’s the world’s oldest profession,” he says, as though he’s telling me something I don’t know.
I pull myself up to my full height. “You know what? We’re done.”
I turn and march away.
Of course, the ass-nugget follows.
“Oh, come on. What else am I supposed to think?” He waves a hand wildly. “You’re hanging out with goofy old dudes who say you’re worth every penny and want another go.”
I pick up my pace. “I could be teaching them to knit!”
“I’ve yet to see a knitting needle make an appearance.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll only stick you someplace rude.”
“Kinky. But it still doesn’t explain the dudes.”
“I could be teaching them yoga, or how to dance. Anything.” I glare up at John as I stride along. “Anything other than fucking them for money!”
His blush deepens. “Geesh. Okay. I get it. Fucking for money is a no-go.”
I snort and shove him away. Or try to; the oaf is too strong to budge. “Stop following me,” I hiss, headed for the subway.
“We live in the same building.”
I halt and he does too. He’s tall enough that he blocks out the hazy white sky as he looks down at me, perplexed.
“Listen, dickwad.” I punch his stomach for emphasis. It’s like hitting a warm wall, damn it. “When I say we’re done, I mean we. Are. Done.” I jab him with every word. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just forget you know me.”
His expression could only be described as a man pout, his full bottom lip jutting. I have the urge to bite it. Sadly, I can’t decide if I want to bite it in a sexy way or an evil, you will feel my wrath way. Maybe both.
When he talks, his voice is solemn and thoughtful. “I think we should revisit this when you don’t want to tear my dick off or stick knitting needles in odd places.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time, then.” With that, I raise my hand and hail the cab coming down the street. I rush to it and jump in. John watches me with a blank expression as I reach for the door to shut it. I glare. “Oh, and ‘Open Shelter’ is saccharine and sophomoric at best.”
His look of outrage over me bashing one of Kill John’s iconic songs is almost enough to make me smile. I slam the cab door just as John shouts out, “Low blow, Mint Thief!”
* * *
John
With sex off the menu, I have one last outlet left. Exercise. Lots of it. I can’t say that I enjoy it as much as sex. It would be pretty sad if I did. But working out gives me focus and a type of pain that is clean. There is a high with physical exertion that mimics sex or being on the stage. Unfortunately, it’s only a shadow of those things. But I chase it anyway.
Today, I’m running with Scottie. He got me into running a year ago, showing me the joys of this special type of torture. No doubt about it, the high is worth it.
My lungs have a good burn in them, my body warm and loose as we jog along the Hudson River Park path. When we first started jogging together, Scottie kicked my ass every time. I’d limp along like death on legs while he barely broke a sweat. Now the tables have turned. Scottie is the one lagging behind, his cheeks flushed, his usually irritable expression even more so.
Since he’s become a father—and I am still in shock over Mr. Ice becoming Mr. Mom—Scottie hasn’t had much time to do anything but take care of his baby, something he does with the same unwavering intensity that he gives to his job, to the band. The joy in his expression when he talks about his offspring is incandescent. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it makes me envy Scottie just a little bit, though not much because the guy has circles under his eyes that rival Saturn’s rings.
“Come on, Dad,” I joke, slowing down to match his pace. “You want to develop a gut?”
“Get stuffed,” he mutters.
I grin. Payback is a beautiful thing. “I can’t. That’s why we’re running.”
“That’s why you’re running,” he bites out between breaths. “I’m running because I’m a bloody masochist.”
“I thought you were a sadist.”
He glares, and I laugh, feeling lighter.
Scottie mutters a curse, before running his hand over his brow. “I’m curious—”
“When are you not?”
“You say you’re running because you can’t have sex,” he goes on. “Yet it has been two weeks since you began antibiotics. Surely, they’ve run their course.”
My feet pound a steady rhythm. “They have. In fact, I saw Dr. Stern today and have been given the all-clear.”
“Then why—”
“I was serious when I said I was done with casual sex. I can’t risk it. Frankly, I don’t want it like that anymore. The thought of getting down and dirty with a woman I don’t know …” I shudder. “Nope. Not happening. Which means Jax Jr. is on bread and water for the foreseeable future.”
; Scottie grunts. “It isn’t all bad waiting. In truth, when you find someone you actually want, it’s so bloody fantastic, it makes up for all the torture.”
“Oh god, you aren’t giving me a ‘love will give you wings’ speech, are you?”
He cuts me a look. “Anyone who sneers at love hasn’t experienced true pleasure and is talking out of his arse.”
I make a face, but I’m not annoyed. Despite the fact that he acts like he’s my dad half the time, we’re the same age. And he’s one of my best friends. Out of all my friends, Scottie’s brand of chill with a side of fuck you has become the easiest for me to relax around. I can speak my mind, and he won’t let me get away with shit.
In a world where almost everyone lets me get away with whatever I want, his fortitude is a gift. Not that I’d tell him. Scottie would hate that.
We run in silence, his huffing loud but leveling out. I know Scottie will be content to stay as we are, not talking about a thing. Ordinarily, I would too. But I’ve been restless for days. An uncomfortable emotion that feels a lot like guilt is growing within me, and I can’t seem to get away from it.
Truth? I need to confess. Killian, Rye, or Whip will give me a free pass for my shit behavior. Mainly because they don’t want me “upset.” I fucking hate that. Even though I know I’d have an easier time talking to one of my bandmates, I go for gold and tell the one guy who won’t sugarcoat a damn thing.
“I asked Stella if she was an escort.”
Scottie stumbles a step. “You did what?”
His shout rings out over the path, and a few pigeons take flight.
“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, jogging along.
But Scottie has stopped. I turn my head and find him standing in the path, hands on his hips, his face like thunder. If I were Scooby, it would be the time for me to say, “Ruh-roh.”
On plodding feet, I jog back to him.
Scottie’s voice is all edges when he speaks again. “Am I imagining things or did you just tell me that you accused Stella Grey of being a prostitute?”
Fall Page 10
