Alone in John’s living room, I run my fingers through my hair and straighten my shirt. I’m certain I’m a mess; my lips are tender and probably look bruised. But these are rockers. They’re used to sex, and I can’t feel any shame. If anything, I’m annoyed at their ham-handed instance on interrupting us.
I’m still practicing my look of cool composure when I open the front door. It abruptly fades as I come face to face with what is arguably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. He stands on the threshold, impeccably dressed in a fine gray suit, his ink-black hair gleaming in the hall light, aqua eyes sharp with focus. I swear I go a little weak-kneed at the sight. But that’s not what makes me utter a gasp of true delight.
Another set of brilliant blue eyes has me enthralled. I fall a little in love just then. Because the infant cozily tucked in the chest carrier the man wears is the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. The little guy clearly knows it and gives me a gummy smile while waving his chubby fist.
“Oh, my god. Be still my heart.”
The man in the suit doesn’t change his expression, but something that looks a lot like beaming pride fills his eyes and makes him suddenly seem human. He puts a protective hand upon the baby’s stomach. And there goes my ovaries. I can feel them bursting into flames as a happy sigh escapes me.
“He has that effect on people,” says another man at his side. I hadn’t even noticed him, which is shock enough because the guy is hot, not in the cool perfection of the guy with the baby, but in a rangy, easygoing way. This is a guy women flock to, knowing that he’ll treat them right even as he breaks their heart. He’s a lot like John in that way.
Recognition hits me. He’s Whip Dexter, the bassist for Kill John. He gives me a friendly but assessing smile. “One look at those baby blues and women turn into a puddle.”
John appears at my shoulder, wearing a shirt and looking aggrieved. “Jesus, you’re not falling for Scottie’s face too, are you?”
“Scottie?” I ask blankly.
“He means me,” Hot Baby Daddy says, his accent as crisp as his suit.
This is the man who hired me? Of course he is. I recognize his voice. Scottie meets my eyes and one of his black brows ticks up a touch. He knows perfectly well I was gushing over the baby but clearly doesn’t have any intention of correcting John. I wonder about that, as John keeps complaining.
“Seriously, it’s just embarrassing. He’s happily married, you know.”
Annoyance skitters down my spine. I just had my tongue in John’s mouth, and he thinks I’m crushing on Scottie? Then again, the man is gorgeous—I can see how he’d make any guy leery.
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud, I was talking about the baby.” I make a goofy face at the cooing little. “Wasn’t I? You cute little dude.”
“Little dude,” repeats Whip with a smile. “I like it.”
John expels a breath, having the grace to appear chagrined. “Right. Felix. Didn’t see him there. Hey, little man.”
“You were distracted by my stunning good looks, weren’t you?” Scottie quips. “I get that a lot.”
John flips him the finger.
“Is that his name?” I ask Scottie.
“Yes, this is my son, Felix Tiberius Scott.”
Felix lifts a fist as if to say, “Respect my awesomeness, woman!”
Scottie gave his son a Star Trek name? I fall a little more in love with the both of them. Though, really, Scottie is too cold and too pretty for anything other than casual admiration. His baby, though? I want to bite those chubby cheeks.
“He’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you.” Another lift of those imperious brows. “Miss?”
I get the weird feeling he knows but is asking out of politeness.
John and I speak over each other.
“I’m—”
“She’s—”
Whip cuts us off. “Maddy, right?” He gives me an innocent smile. “Jax told me he’s been making dinners for his neighbor Maddy.”
Maddy? Who the fuck is Maddy? I stiffen, my face feeling like concrete. He’s been making “dinner” for one of the other neighbors? I’m just one of many?
“Ah, no, I’m …”
John makes a noise of irritation. “This is Stella, not Maddy. Jesus, I think it’s pretty fucking clear she’s not Maddy, you asshat.”
Okay, that hurt. I can’t pretend it didn’t. I shoot John a glare as he ushers Scottie and Whip inside, but I don’t get to say a word because Scottie turns and pins me to the spot with his weirdly intense gaze. “We finally meet, Ms. Grey.”
Oh, shit. I’m not supposed to be in contact with John. And here I am. In close, personal contact. I open my mouth and find my voice gone.
“Did you seriously tell her not to talk to me?” John says, putting it all out there.
Scottie gives him a passing glance and Felix blows spit bubbles.
“Yes, I’m Stella Grey. I know you said not to engage with John but—”
“Yeah,” John drawls, “that plan went out the door when she stole my ice cream.”
I round on John, who is now a dead man. “Hey! You had your paws all over my mint chip. I just took it back.” Each word is punctuated by a poke to his ribs.
John skitters back with a yelp. “Jesus, calm down with the stabby finger. And we both know that’s not true, Stella Button. Need I mention the—”
“Utter another word and I will bite you like a rabid ferret.”
John gapes at me for a second, then bursts out laughing—full, shoulder-shaking laughing that cause tears to well in his eyes.
I huff out an annoyed breath. “I’m serious. Fear my wrath, rocker boy.”
He laughs harder. “Make it stop,” he rasps through his tears. “My stomach hurts.”
“Ass-nugget,” I mutter, which makes him hunch over.
The coo of a baby has me pausing, and I realize we have an audience, one I’d totally forgotten about. Heat rushes over my face and prickles my skin. Oh, fucking hell. Mortified, I elbow John and slowly turn to face Scottie and Whip.
Whip grins wide and pleased and, to my horror, he’s recording John laughing. “Sorry,” he says to me, “but that had to be saved for posterity.”
I have no idea why the sight of John losing it is that big a deal, but I’m too focused on Scottie to care. “Sorry,” I say to my employer. “I really didn’t mean that.”
Scottie’s dark brow wings up. “That would be a shame, Ms. Grey. If anyone needs to be taken down by a woman emulating a rabid ferret, it’s Jax.”
God, I really did say rabid ferret. I want to slink away and hide.
John sobers then. “Hey,” he says outraged, “what did I do?”
“Shall we print up a list?” Scottie murmurs without any heat. Then he turns to me. “Rest assured, Ms. Grey, my intent was to spare you any irritation. It was certainly not to keep you from meeting Jax.”
“She calls him John,” Whip points out, still weirdly happy.
“It’s my name.” John flicks Whip’s ear and then dances out of reach when Whip reaches to smack his head. John glares at Scottie. “And you, Mr. Traitor, keep this up and I’m telling Sophie the stroller you bought is not Parent Guideline approved.”
Little Felix makes an indignant squawk.
Scottie pales, his arrogant brow wrinkling. “An utter lie. You wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“Try me.” John sniffs, his chin lifting. “Bad enough you tried to pound my door down.”
Whip snorts. “Interrupted, did we?” He appears fairly pleased at the notion.
He earns another ear flick. Whip is about to say something when the elevator door opens and two people get out, clearly arguing.
“The fact that I smiled at the Uber driver and wished her a nice evening does not mean I was hitting on her,” says a big, blond guy, clearly Rye Peterson. The sheer perfection of his thickly muscled arms is enough to identify him. There is a Tumblr dedicated to “Rye Peterson’s Arms.”
Th
e woman with him is Brenna. Just like on the night of the party, her long hair is in a high, sleek ponytail that she flips over her shoulder. “The fact that you took her number makes you a total liar.”
His hands lift in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do? Toss it back to her? Then I’m all over social media as Rye the asshole who was mean to some woman. And you know it.” He leans in, crowding her space. “I mean, are you or are you not my publicist?”
Brenna gives him a cool look. “As your publicist, I’d advise you to keep your dick in your pants.”
His smile is dark. “Sounds a lot like jealousy to me, Berry.”
“Berry?” Whip repeats, breaking their silence. “You got a pet name for her?”
Both of them freeze, Brenna turning a shade of raspberry pink. I empathize. It sucks how easily we redheads blush.
Felix coos in the silence. Brenna smooths her skirt and heads our way, her heels clicking on the marble. “Felix Tiberius, my man.” She lifts his tiny fist and baps it against her palm.
John steps back from the doorway. “Can we take all the drama inside, please?”
“No drama,” Brenna assures. “Just dealing with someone’s big head.”
“Which head are you talking about?” Rye says with stage leer. “Because I have two heads, sweetheart, and they’re both big.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Brenna sing-songs as everyone files into the penthouse.
“Where’s Sophie?” John asks, cutting off Rye’s protests.
“Out with her mum.” Scottie makes his way to the Biedermeier sideboard that serves as a bar. “She sends her regrets.”
Before John can close the door, the elevator dings again, and a pretty woman with silver-blue hair steps out. She looks like a 1940s pinup but is dressed in blue overalls and red Chucks and is holding a large tin food container. “Freedom!” she cries in a very good Braveheart impression, hand held high in victory.
From the way Scottie and Felix both beam at her, I’m guessing this is Sophie.
John gives her a kiss hello on the cheek. “Thank Christ. I don’t want to deal with Scottie being in a mood because you’re not here.”
Scottie snorts. “For that, I’ll still be a moody git to you.” But to Sophie he smiles. “Darling, your men have missed you.” Felix squawks in agreement.
“My handsome boys,” Sophie coos, smothering them with smoochie kisses. Neither male seems to mind in the least. In fact, they both purr under her care. She turns to John. “I know you have dinner covered, so I brought some bibingka for dessert.” Her words trail off and her eyes go wide with some sort of internalized shock. “Holy hell, I’m becoming my mother. Quick, somebody take this damn food and perform an exorcism!”
John snickers. “Too late, the damage is done.”
“Oh, hush your evil mouth.” She swats his arm and then turns to me with a smile. “Hey, I’m Sophie. I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Really?” It comes out in an embarrassing squeak.
“Oh, yes. Gabriel says you’re driving Jax crazy.” She practically beams. “Which is a wonderful thing indeed.”
“Darling,” Scottie interjects smoothly, “leave Jax be. He’ll have a fit, and we’ll never eat.”
“Watch out, Stells,” John murmurs. “Apparently, I’m to have a fit soon.”
“At least I know I drive you crazy.”
“You already knew that, Button.”
True.
He closes the door, and I step close to him. “Who is Maddy?”
The extremely fond look in his eyes kind of makes me want to scream. Especially since it’s clear he knows I’m jealous. “Maddy, my dear sweet Stella, is our seventy-four-year-old neighbor who kindly lets me into her home now and then when I get lonely for company.”
I stare like a stunned deer for a second before my body sags. “Oh.”
He’s smug as hell and has every right to be. “I kind of love that jealous little growl you made, though.”
“I did not growl.” I wrinkle my nose when he stares me down. Okay, I might have growled. “Maddy is Mrs. Goldman?” What is her first name? Madeline? It has to be her. Though I can’t picture calling her Maddy.
John confirms it with a nod. “You’ve met her?”
“We had lunch together. She tried to play matchmaker between us.”
“Really?” He sounds pleased. “Well, that just proves she has great taste.”
“Don’t get a bigger head, John. You still need to fit through doors.”
Smiling, he touches my wrinkled nose fondly. “I was talking about her taste in you.”
Gah. He’s going to kill me with his charm. They’ll find me in a puddle of lust with only my panties floating in it.
“Hey,” Rye calls over to us, “stop making heart eyes at each other, and let’s cook. I’m hungry.”
John’s mouth quirks. “Lesson one when it comes to my guys: Rye is an asshat.”
“I heard that!”
“I meant you to!” Shaking his head and silently laughing, John takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.
And that is when I fully realize I’m going to have dinner with three-fourths of Kill John. More importantly, I’m with John’s closest friends. Suddenly, I’m nervous.
* * *
John
Stella is about to meet the majority of my family. My true family, that is. I have parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Not a single one of them acknowledges me anymore. I’m an embarrassment. First, for being a rocker. Second, for publicly exposing my mental health “issues.” For them, decorum trumps everything. One does not gyrate on a stage, singing songs about fucking. And one definitely does not try to take one’s own life in a public manner. Apparently, you do that shit behind closed doors and wait for the family to properly cover it up.
My family takes pride in the blueness of their blood and expects every member to behave accordingly. I find this ironic as hell, given that I’ve met the Queen of England, have hung out with both young princes, and am generally more familiar with Royal Palace-sponsored events than any member of my esteemed family. Maybe that’s the problem—I succeeded on my own terms.
Whatever the case, aside from Killian and Libby, the people I love most in the world are here now. And so is Stella. While my dick is not a happy camper for being interrupted, and my balls ache something fierce, I’m glad Stella is meeting my mates.
Rye plops his ass down on the sofa. “I don’t smell any food.”
“I forgot to cook,” I confess with a wince. I’m notoriously forgetful and it pisses people off.
Whip slaps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You had better things to do.” He nods in Stella’s direction. “I get it, man.”
I can’t even pretend that it wasn’t Stella distracting me. But the fact that she flushes cotton-candy pink has me elbowing Whip’s gut. “Knock it off.”
He takes the hit with a laugh and then heads for the kitchen. Brenna and Sophie follow, and the three of them start rummaging through the fridge, finding the two whole chickens I’d bought to roast.
“Let’s get this meal started,” Whip says, turning on the oven.
Sophie and Scottie look on with Felix as the rest of us make dinner. Stella and I stand by the sink peeling potatoes, our arms brushing now and then. Every time it happens, we slide each other a look, and Stella smiles shyly. It makes me want to kiss her. Every time.
I am so aware of this woman, it isn’t funny. And smitten. Ridiculously smitten. It’s worse, now that I know her taste, how she feels against my mouth, under my hands. She’s my new favorite song; I want to play her over and over.
With prep done, I take over the bulk of the cooking, mainly because I’m the best at it. Stella laughs as Rye and Whip tell stories about being on the road. And because they’re prats, most of the stories revolve around my more embarrassing moments.
“What about the first Rolling Stone interview?” Brenna interjects helpfully.
&n
bsp; “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I raise a hand in defeat.
Stella’s gaze darts around the kitchen island, taking in everyone’s evil grins. “What happened?” She’s clearly relishing my pain. Little tart.
Brenna is practically giddy as she tells the story. “It was Kill John’s first Rolling Stone interview. Big time, right?”
Stella nods, rapt with anticipation.
“Jax and the reporter had been flirting the entire time,” Whip says as he chops some rosemary. “It was disgusting, really.”
“Only because she ignored you,” I feel obligated to say.
Without pause, he flips me off and continues his story. “We’re wrapping things up, and Mr. Smooth sidles over to get her number.”
I shake my head, my face hot.
Stella’s eyes are wide and deep blue. “He struck out?”
“It’s comforting to know you find the idea shocking, Button,” I deadpan. “But no.”
“No,” Whip agrees with a snicker. “Not exactly.”
Rye’s grinning wide, his eyes forming little blue triangles. “He’s standing there, all ‘So, babe,’ when suddenly he starts bobbing and weaving his head around, with this weird face …”
At that moment, everyone does the face, lips pinched, nostrils flaring as though they’re sniffing something off, and Stella starts laughing. They all do. I grimace at the memory.
Rye is still laughing as he talks. “And we’re like, what the fuck was that, dude? But Jax plays it off as if nothing happened and tries to talk to her again.”
“Only he starts bobbing around again,” Brenna says, doing a fair imitation of me.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, the echoes of that long-ago embarrassment humming along my skin.
“What was going on?” Stella asks, looking from me to my friends.
I don’t get to answer. Whip beats me to it.
“He opens his mouth one last time to speak when he suddenly sputters and coughs, just fucking gagging.”
Rye is practically weeping with glee. “And the reporter is backing up, looking really regretful she bothered talking to this wingnut, but she asks him if he’s okay.” Rye wipes his eyes. “And Jax says …”
As one, my traitorous friends all shout out as one, “I … swallowed … a … bug.”
Fall Page 21
